


Waiting for the Rain

by trashy_cas



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime), 言の葉の庭 | Kotonoha no Niwa | Garden of Words (2013)
Genre: Dorks in Love, Garden of Words AU, Lots of rain, M/M, No age gap, attempt to recreate that feeling of rainy gardens, more like loosely based on Garden of Words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-09-11 07:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8969215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashy_cas/pseuds/trashy_cas
Summary: In which Katsuki Yuuri meets a stranger who also enjoys frequenting empty parks on rainy mornings. Garden of Words AU





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> recently watched this movie (yes I know I'm like 3 years late whoopsie) and was blown away by the music and animation. as with everything these days, it reminded me of a certain pair of lovesick dorks. so ye
> 
> UPDATE 9/14/17: so i'm so overwhelmed with happiness because??? [@elmo](http://prosecutorheichou.tumblr.com/) made me the most stunning [art](http://prosecutorheichou.tumblr.com/post/165321477963/whos-viktor-nikiforov-oh-dont-worry-about) i have ever seen in my life and i would just like to share it with the world asdfghjkl;

_June_

 

Rain.

He can’t focus unless it rains.

He misses his home, in Hasetsu, where you could see the sky no matter where you went. Just look up, and it was there.

Sometimes, when he doesn’t feel like going to school, instead of getting on the connecting train after the first stop, he’ll consider going to the garden.

However, garden days are reserved for only certain mornings. Most of the time, he sighs, takes a moment to inhale a deep, tired breath, then darts into the last train car at the last possible second, right before the automatic doors shut close.

He’ll listen to the rattle of the tracks without really noticing the chattering of those around him, the press of someone’s elbow in his back, the natural light flickering in through the window, swallowed every now and then by a dark tunnel. He’ll stare at nothing for the duration of the trip, and wish for something to happen in his life, something that, as a lackluster figure skater in his early twenties, he can’t put his finger on just yet.

Most of the time.

Sometimes, he wakes up to rain.

These are the days he likes best.

Today is one of these days.

He wakes up to the faint pitter pattering of water hitting his window, tracing faint lines of life across the glass. He watches the little droplets bump into other clusters of water, become one, then continue their trek down his window together.

If he’s being honest, it’s one of the best things in the whole wide world, waking up to rain. He nearly leaps out of bed, unable to contain the happy smile that spreads across his face. For the first time in months, he feels something stir inside him, dormant in the cold winter months, but alive and well now that it has been watered and given life by the beginning of Tokyo’s rainy season.

Strange, how a little rain can make him feel.

He watches the train that usually takes him to campus speed away with a resounding _whoosh_ , leaving behind a few stragglers on the platform and a few flying coffee cups. When the rush of air dies away, he starts walking through the streets of the city, a little spring in his step, his umbrella held close to his body, as if he were sharing a little secret.

_I should be somewhere else right now_.

He ignores the others who are leaving the park, trying to escape the drops of water plipping down from the trees above.

_I should be somewhere else right now_.

Birds singing. Rainy breeze touching his cheeks.

He’s at the entrance now. He slots some change into the meter at the gate, then makes his way across the familiar stone path, avoiding the little puddles that reveal little patches of wavering sky.

_I should be somewhere else right now._

He crosses the wooden bridge that spans across the water, now empty of other park goers due to the rain, his footsteps echoing on the water beneath the slick wood. He comes across to the usual spot, a little overhanging alcove near the edge of the large pond, just one of many that reside in the garden.

To his surprise, he sees another person there, silver hair blowing ever so slightly with the wind, head hunched over a book.

Even from this distance, he can see a slight curve gracing the stranger’s lips, and his fingers are drumming slightly on the grip of his book. His foot is tapping ever so softly on the wooden floor, inaudible against the noise of the rain. But he takes in the sight of his movements, as graceful and gentle as the branches that sway in the wind, enclosing the gazebo with their dripping leaves. Like he’s dancing to music only he can hear.

_I should be nowhere else but here right now_ Katsuki Yuuri, age 23, lost in the mediocrity of his own life, thinks, as he watches the stranger.

Said stranger looks up from his book. His foot ceases its dance for a moment. His fingers still.

Their eyes meet, and the trees watch in amusement as surprise flickers through both pairs.

One pair of blue, for being seen when they did not know they were being watched.

One pair of brown, for being caught watching.

Time stills for a moment.

“Hello,” says the stranger.

He has a nice voice, Yuuri thinks. Quiet, yet pleasantly so. Resonating, yet not overwhelming.

It’s like the summer rain.

Yuuri blinks, and time seems to restart.

The man pats the little bench that stretches around the perimeter of the alcove welcomingly, inviting him to sit with a quiet hum, then returns to reading his book.

“Excuse me,” Yuuri mumbles, sliding as nonchalantly as possible into the bench. He closes his umbrella as the stranger scoots over a little, despite the fact that there is plenty of room for at least three other people. After a few seconds of awkward shifting and fidgeting, Yuuri decides to not think too much about it, and begins to unpack his bag. He removes a small iPod with a pair of earbuds attached, a pencil, and a notebook. He flips to a certain page, marked with little notes that read _triple Salchow, sit spin, step sequence, quadruple flip (?)_ in neat, capital letters _,_ and places his earbuds in his ears, but does not start the music. Instead, he looks at the little ripples that the rain makes in the pond, hears the little splashes they make, the occasional chirping of the birds.

He makes little doodles with his pencil, staring intently at the messy trails of graphite. A drop of water from above hits the middle of the page, smearing his notes.

He hears humming. He looks up in surprise at the stranger, who is still reading their book.

_Stay Close to Me_ reads the cover. The stranger continues to hum as he brings a can of- _is that beer?_ to their lips. (Yuuri could’ve sworn that there was an explicit warning at the entrance against alcohol). They only pause when they snap a little square of chocolate off the corner of a candy bar and pop it into their mouth thoughtfully. _Beer and…chocolate?_ They turn a page of their book, then continue humming. The song is a relatively simple one, yet strangely familiar. Yuuri wonders if he’s heard it before.

Now that he has a good look at him, the stranger is very attractive, with his smiling eyes and dancing fingers and broad forehead. His hair is an intriguing shade of silver-grey that Yuuri has never seen before.

After realizing that he’s staring for longer than appropriate, Yuuri shakes the faint blush off his cheeks and goes back to his notebook, pushing play on his iPod. He pays no more heed to the stranger. He came here to have a quiet place to think, after all, not ogle at mysteriously attractive men.

As the familiar music starts, Yuuri makes another fruitless attempt to grasp at the meaning behind the notes, but it’s like water running through his fingers. He still does not know how to express this emotion in his movements on the ice, how to let the audience know what it’s like to simply sit on a quiet park bench with a stranger and then and enjoy the rain together. He wonders if his coach could give him any pointers on this, then shakes the thought off fairly quickly. Celestino is a great coach, able to provide useful advice whenever he’s just not landing his jumps right, but there’s something missing. Something that no amount of coaching can provide him.

Which is why he’s sitting on a gazebo park bench in the middle on a rainy morning, attempting to find meaning in his faltering figure skating career, when he should be in first period, listening to Minako-sensei gripe at the other students about taking selfies in class and giving another one of her famous lectures on the importance of a good ole’-fashioned liberal arts education. Yuuri knows that he’s going to get an earful from her later for skipping class. Hopefully she’ll understand his need for some peace and quiet, especially since competition season is coming up. Hopefully.

While he muses, his pencil remains idle in his slack hand, the tip ghosting across his notebook. One earbud falls out as he leans his head against one of the wooden beams holding up the gazebo, but Yuuri does not notice. The song, being the only one in his playlist, ends uneventfully, and he hears the stranger humming that odd melody again. It weaves itself among the notes of softly falling rain, and Yuuri lets out a quiet breath into the damp air, shifting his notebook on his lap.

He drops his eraser. It hits the ground with a little bounce, rises up, hits the ground, rises up again. It lands in another’s hand. Yuuri looks up in surprise, glasses slipping slightly off his nose.

“Here,” says the stranger, offering it to him. He wears a friendly smile.

Yuuri leans a little out of his seat to take it from him. Their fingers brush momentarily. The other’s hand is warm. “Thanks.”

The stranger nods and goes back to reading their book, humming quietly again. Yuuri begins to drift off, lulled into sleep by the comfort of the abandoned garden and the quiet voice of someone like him, someone who doesn't mind being out in the rain. Maybe even someone who is as lost as Yuuri. 

_This is nice_ he thinks to himself sleepily. _I really need to ask the name of that song…_

After a time, he wakes up with a jolt, and realizes that the stranger is gone. A quick look at his watch tells him that he had been asleep for much longer than originally anticipated, and he rushes to stuff his possessions in his damp bag.

He hops off the small wooden platform and starts running, picking speed as he dashes through the trees, his clear umbrella now folded closed and snapping against the ground every few feet, his bag bouncing on his knees. He nearly jumps the fence at the exit of the garden, wondering, almost laughing, about how he’s going to hear it from Minako-sensei when he’s late for the nth time this month.

With one last glance back at the garden entrance, he feels a small smile make its way to his lips. _I’ll be back_ he thinks, a silent promise to the sky above. Strangely, it feels like it will not be the last time Yuuri will see the silver-haired man or hear his lullaby.

The rain has stopped.

Back in the garden, the last traces of water trickle off in little rivulets, gently tapping the roof of a certain shady nook near the water, nearly hidden from the rest of the world.

_He can still hear the other’s music, coupled with the quiet melody of silence, and he knows that he will return._

_All there’s left to do is wait for the rain._


	2. Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any typos or grammar errors! (my beta is on vacay rn, so it's just me holding down the fort lol)  
> I hope you enjoy!

It does not rain for another three days. Yuuri gets on the connecting train to the university every one of these three days, disappointed.

On the fourth day, he wakes up to water on his window, and he smiles.

Out of bed, a grin on his face. Past his snoring roommate, Phichit, still slightly hungover from a night out with the rest of his and Yuuri’s classmates (Yuuri had failed to attend the outing, mostly due to the fact that he had to catch up on all the notes he had missed). Snagging his umbrella propped against the doorframe. Down the slick steps of the stairs of their apartment. Boarding the first train, skipping the second. Through the city streets once again, a spark in his step. Pushing some change into the entrance meter.

_I should be somewhere else right now_  his heart sings as he walks through the faded gates.

Despite his questionable actions, he’s knows that he's not a rebellious teenager by any means. He’s 23, and perfectly capable of making his own decisions. It just so happens that he has one more year of school to finish, is all. And once he's done, then he’ll finally be able to focus completely on the thing he loves, devote every breathing moment to making music on the ice.

At least, that's what he tells himself, the small space under his umbrella echoing with the sound of falling water and his own warring emotions as he makes his way through the trees towards his usual spot.

When the little wooden enclosure comes into view, he sees a familiar flash of silver. Upon drawing closer, Yuuri realizes that he has company once again, in the form of the beer-drinking, chocolate-eating, lullaby-humming stranger.

Said stranger gives him a slight nod once he sees Yuuri, then scoots over a little to make room. Yuuri has instant déjà vu of their last encounter. The man continues reading that same book quietly, though his posture remains open and friendly. _Stay Close to Me._

Yuuri closes his umbrella with a faint _snick_. He opts to simply sit with his notebook open on his lap, pencil tucked behind his ear, and listen to the rain. No earbuds for today.

The stranger begins humming again. Today’s melody seems to be a lively, spirited version of the last tune Yuuri had heard. This one is more daring, more exotic. Yuuri hangs on wordlessly to every note, letting the pitches mix in with the sound of water pitter pattering against the roof, absorbing as much as he can. He closes his eyes.

He tries to lose himself in the stranger’s voice as it echoes through the trees, almost teasingly. He can hear a story woven throughout the melody, alluding to a tale of seduction and fiery passion, culminating in a conclusion of shattering hearts and broken glass.

_A playboy comes to a certain town and bewitches the women left and right._

_He decides to pursue the most beautiful woman in town, but she isn’t swayed._

_Then, as they play the game of love, she finds in difficult to make the right choices..._

_...and ends up falling for him._

_Then he casts her aside, as through he’s tired of her, and goes off to the next town…_

“Do you like it?”

Yuuri’s eyes fly open, and he stares, slightly open-mouthed, at the stranger, his cheeks a little flushed. That silver head has not lifted from its gaze on the book, yet there is no one else the stranger could be talking to.

“I’m sorry?”

He chuckles softly. It’s a deep, rumbling sound, like the air in his lungs is laughing along with him, but not in a mean-spirited way. He looks up from his book, and his eyes meet Yuuri’s. “The song,” he says.

Yuuri remains speechless for a moment, attempting to remember to how to make conversation with another person. After a few seconds, he finds his voice. “Uh, yes. The song," he parrots. "It's...nice.” His reply...sounds like a question, even to his own ears. Go figure.

The stranger smiles again, either not noticing Yuuri's inability to communicate like a normal human being or simply not caring. “Good,” he says, and goes back to reading. “I’m glad.”

A minute passes. Then two. Finally-

“What’s the name?” he blurts.

The man looks up from his book questioningly.

“Of the song?” Yuuri nearly squeaks. He’s already regretting his decision to open his mouth. The stranger probably thinks Yuuri's creepy, asking about some tune that he happened to be humming while sitting next to some weirdo he’s run into twice already, on two separate weekday occasions, in a rainy park.

Yuuri’s about to quickly deny the fact that he said anything and begins formulating plans to run away very, very fast, and to possibly never come back to this park again.

He opens his mouth to somehow say all of this, but the stranger beats him to it with a flash of teeth and a mischievous curve of his lips. 

This time, his grin is almost sly, like he’s sharing a secret with only Yuuri. “Ah yes, the song. Well. It’s called _Eros_.”

_Well_ , indeed.

“Oh,” is all Yuuri is able to manage.

Now he’s blushing, red blooming across his cheeks and creeping its way down his neck. The stranger laughs yet _again_ , and it sounds so wonderful, that after a moment, Yuuri can’t help but allow a small grin of his own to make its way to his lips. The stranger’s grin widens.

“Ah, so he _can_  smile!” he exclaims.

Yuuri flushes an even darker shade of red, his hand coming up automatically to cover his face. “Um-”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” the stranger says, giving a little wave of his hand. “I just like to poke fun sometimes. But really, the song is quite…sensuous. You should look it up if you get the chance.”

Yuuri's gut reaction is to instantly say no, that's ok, and that he really just liked the way the stranger's voice sounds, he was just curious is all, but something stops him. 

Maybe it's the way those blue eyes are looking at him intently, as if trying to puzzle something out. Maybe it's the surrealness of the whole situation, the fact that he's laughing together with this man, whose name he doesn't even know, as if they were friends. At least, that's what it feels like to Yuuri.

Maybe he will. After all, he has been trying to find some new music for his short program lately.

Maybe he can take this song and run with it, and maybe, just _maybe,_ it will surprise the audience, give them something to whisper about in the stands, while he revels in their disbelief from the ice.

Now _that_ would be something extraordinary. Not tired and dying, the way his career has been lately.

It's been so long since he's allowed himself to hope for anything. 

Maybe it's time to change that.

The stranger is still looking at him with, his brows lifted a little expectantly. 

Yuuri finds himself nodding seriously. “Yeah, maybe I will.”

Another mysterious smile, another flash of sparkling blue. “Good.”

The gazebo returns to the silence, except this time, there’s an air of companionship mixed in with the damp of the rain. Yuuri finds that he doesn’t mind it at all.

With his pencil twirling in his hand, he goes back to marking some notes, suddenly inspired by the stranger’s words. _Eros_ echoes in his mind as he maps out the choreography both on paper and in his mind, placing a sit spin  _there,_ dropping a triple toe loop _here_ , making the audience gasp in suspense  _there._

When the stranger starts humming the tune again, Yuuri finds himself joining in. Their voices dance around each other in a playful duet, just two lost souls finding temporary shelter from the rain together in the green of the forest, sharing a little secret, having a little fun. It’s the most Yuuri's enjoyed himself in ages with someone else other than his family or close friends.

The minutes pass by too quickly, and before he knows it, his watch is telling him that he really needs to hurry if he has any hope of surviving Minako-sensei’s wrath. With a sigh, he stands up, carefully placing his pencil in his notebook and hefting his belongings over his shoulder. As he reaches for his umbrella, he sneaks a glance at the handsome stranger once more, and finds that his eyes are already trained intently on Yuuri’s arm, where his practice bag containing his skating gear rests.

For a moment, as he watches the stranger watch him, Yuuri swears he sees something flickering across his features, almost like-

_Sadness? Pain?_

But Yuuri's pencil falls out of his notebook, and he tears his gaze away to quickly nab it before it can fall through the slats of the floor.

He glances up again, and the look is gone, as quick as it came, before he can decipher it.

“Thank you for the song suggestion,” he blurts out, before shutting his mouth quickly, a faint pink dusting his cheeks yet again. 

The stranger's eyes shift to look directly at Yuuri's face. He simply offers another smile, yet this one is not as bright as the one he had flashed at Yuuri earlier. This one is a little quieter, a little more muted, like the grey sky above behind clouds of rain.

For some reason, it also feels so much more real.

“Of course,” he says, wearing this smile. “ _Dasvidaniya_.”

Yuuri has no idea what he just said, but he nods anyway, and walks towards the entrance as quickly as he can without looking too much like he’s running away from the sudden change of atmosphere. He even forgets to open his umbrella, so by the time he’s at the park entrance, he’s been thoroughly dampened by the misty rain. He doesn't notice, too busy replaying the stranger's flash of emotion in his mind over and over again. _Was it something he had said?_

He can't remember. The moment had been too brief, a camera lens shutting for just an instant, and Yuuri had blinked.

When Yuuri boards the subway, it occurs to him that the stranger had been staring at his shoulder. He checks his bag to see if he got mud on it, or if Phichit left another one of his embarrassingly endearing sticky notes on it, reminding him to not forget his lunch again.

He sees nothing but the faded blue of the fabric, and the logo for the rink he practices at.

After a moment, he shrugs, and tries to put the thought out of his mind. Perhaps he was just imagining whatever he saw in those blue, blue eyes.

As the train pulls away from the station, he wonders if that song, _Eros,_ is on Youtube somewhere.

_He'll look it up later_.

*

The stranger watches the cute college kid make a mad dash towards the entrance, not even attempting to shield himself from the rain, failing to be discreet about his tardiness, and he chuckles in amusement behind his book. 

The stranger wonders if he can find some different songs in his playlists from days long gone and bring them to the park, since the other seems to like them so much.

Songs of beauty, of light, of blue flowers the color of eyes in love with the chill of the ice and the crowd cheering his name. 

Swept up in memories of the past, Viktor Nikiforov's smile slips just a little, before he remembers the red of his rainy-day companion's cheeks when he blushed. 

He smiles again, this time real and warm and alive, and maybe, just _maybe_ , a tiny bit hopeful.

_He'll look it up later._

The rain continues to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been less than a week, and I'm still crying over episode 12. season 2 when?  
> (also surprise but not surprise ta daaa! the identity of the mysterious dork who likes to sit in the rain has been revealed!)


	3. Laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Third encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesdays just aren't the same anymore, are they?  
> Hope you enjoy!

This game of theirs continues for a few weeks.

Every day, Yuuri will wake up facing his window. He will look outside eagerly, to see if today is the day. Sometimes, he is disappointed.

However, it’s not the rainy season for nothing. Which means that more often than not, he is rushing to throw on his school uniform and heading out the door, often making Phichit give him a little sideways look that is a little too knowing for Yuuri’s comfort. He simply blushes at his friend’s raised brows, announcing a hasty “I’m off!” from over his shoulder. He hopes he doesn’t sound too enthusiastic, as Phichit’s all-seeing eyes are sometimes so perceptive it scares him.

But regardless of what his best friend may think of his near daily disappearances that make him late for class, he and the mysterious silver-haired stranger have become unlikely friends, companions on rainy mornings. After that day he had told Yuuri about _Eros_ , Yuuri had looked it up on Youtube during his lunch break, getting the feel for the notes and immersing himself in the melody. As it turns out, he had been right about it surprising his audience, namely Celestino, who had been taken aback about the change, but very accepting of it. Yuuri has always been quite reserved, but with every meeting with who Phichit now dubbed as his “rain buddy,” he was slowly starting to gain the confidence to try something new.

And why not? After all, it had been a split-second impulse to skip class that had led him to making fast friends with a mysteriously attractive stranger, whose mysteriousness was only heightened by the fact that Yuuri didn’t even know his name.

 _Besides, the people he can really call his close friends are few and far between, so this is a good opportunity for him,_ Yuuri reasons as he splashes through puddles through the familiar trees, his favorite umbrella bobbing over his head. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that addition to being drop-dead gorgeous, the stranger is also very kind, easy to talk to, and just awkward enough that Yuuri feels comfortable around him.

He approaches the gazebo smiling, and is greeted similarly by friendly blue eyes. Today, the stranger is toting two coffee cups, both steaming hot and with little doodles of poodles on them. “Morning,” he says cheerfully.

Yuuri steps onto the wooden platform and closes his umbrella, adjusting his glasses out of habit. “Morning,” he replies shyly as little droplets of water dangling in his hair tickle his cheeks. The stranger hands him the coffee after he sits, his backpack clanking loudly as he sets it down. His skates, no doubt.

“Oh, what’s in the bag?” the stranger asks curiously. Yuuri takes a sip of the coffee before he answers, and nearly gags. He stares at the cup, wide-eyed.

“Did you…put _any_ kind of creamer in here?”

The stranger tilts his head slightly and gives him what Yuuri now recognizes as his trademark heart-shaped grin. “No! Why do you ask?”

Yuuri shakes his head disbelievingly. “Nothing, nothing. Ah…” he trails off, trying to remember what the question was. “Oh! My bag. Yes, uh…it’s just my skates for practice today, after class.” Which, he reminds himself for the umpteenth time that morning, he should be in right about now. He shakes the thought off and reasons that he can just read the textbook and take notes for the exam later.

“Really? Wow, I didn’t know you skated!” the man says, clasping his hands together eagerly, his eyes suddenly large. “That’s amazing!”

Yuuri tries to hide his blush behind his God-awful coffee. “I-it’s nothing, really. I just really like doing it.”

“Have you ever skated in competition before?” he asks.

He adjusts his glasses again. “Um…well, actually, yes,” he breathes. “I, uh. I’m actually trying to make it my career. I want to skate on the international level.”

He fidgets with the rim of his coffee cup. No matter how friendly he’s become with this person, he can’t believe he just admitted his near lifelong desire of becoming a figure skater to him. “It’s kind of stupid, really,” he backtracks, preparing for the usual scoffing he receives when he tells others outside his family and close friends about his stupid pipe dream.

However, the stranger seems to be even more intrigued. “That’s so interesting,” he says earnestly.

Yuuri’s heart falls. _Interesting, huh…_

“I think you can do it.”

Yuuri looks up from his attempt to look as small as possible over his coffee cup, not quite believing what he’s hearing. He hopes his face doesn’t betray the hope he traitorously feels growing inside him.

But when his peeks timidly at him, Yuuri sees nothing but how the stranger’s eyes are sparkling, like _he_ is the one who is imagining himself in front of a crowd of thousands, skating his heart out on the ice. The hope begins to bloom even further, unraveling throughout his chest and making his eyes sting slightly.

Still, his automatic reaction is to try and reason with himself, to doubt the very idea of someone who might understand. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice a little hollow. “I’ve…hit a wall recently, and I just don’t know what do to? I guess. It’s not important.”

“No, no,” insists the stranger, and Yuuri feels that warmth in the pit of his stomach growing again. “I don’t think it’s stupid at all! Actually, do you want to hear something kind of funny?” He leans a little closer, cupping his hand to his mouth and beckoning Yuuri to move closer as well.

Yuuri complies, his cheeks flushing slightly. The stranger’s breath tickles against his ear, making shivers trail down his spine. He tries his best to ignore it.

The stranger lowers his voice to a low murmur. “I’d always wanted to be a figure skater, too,” he whispers conspiratorially. He slightly withdraws from Yuuri’s ear with a grin, and Yuuri goes cross-eyed as he moves his fingers to boop the tip of Yuuri’s nose ever-so-softly. “And you know what? I don’t regret following through with my dream, and I have a feeling you won’t either. Funny how the world works, right? Two figure skaters in the same park. Imagine that!"

Yuuri takes a second to catch his breath. “Yeah,” he replies, a little dazed. He unconsciously goes to touch the place where the stranger’s hand had been.

Another second later, the full effect of the stranger’s words really hits him. This man…is a figure skater? Or wants to be?

Once again, his tendency to over think everything makes Yuuri doubt his words. Considering how he seems to be a little older than Yuuri and is already out of school, Yuuri can’t help but think that this man is not actually a figure skater, despite the fact that he had just said otherwise. He’s never even seen him at the local rink, and considering his strange habit of drinking alcohol and eating chocolate so early in the morning, he can’t be in the most optimal shape for such a strenuous sport as skating. Right?

However, blush blazing furiously across his face now, Yuuri gives a sideways glance at him.

He’s not in bad shape, actually. His long legs are toned and fit well within his faded grey joggers, and his build is muscular enough to easily accomplish the high jumps and twirls that accompany the sport, yet the curves of his body are also somehow lithe and graceful, the perfect combination for a dancer. Not only that, but…

Yuuri realizes that his movements, from the way he sits on the bench, legs crossed gracefully, to how he holds his steaming cup of coffee between pale, slim fingers, to his posture as he props his chin up on one hand on the railing of the gazebo to stare at the rain dreamily, is one of someone who is used to being watched, someone who is accustomed to using their body movements to display their emotions. Someone who is a performer.

And despite having known him for so little time, Yuuri has no doubt that he excels at it.

“Wait,” Yuuri says in confusion. “Really?”                                                                                                                       

The stranger looks away from the rain and smiles coyly, as if aware that Yuuri had been not-so-subtly checking him out. “Yes, really.”

Yuuri can’t help the small mumble of, “Then why haven’t I seen someone like you at the rink before?” that slips from his mouth.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“N-nothing!” Yuuri stutters, hastily taking a swig from his paper cup before remembering that it’s both scalding hot and lacking any form of sweetener. He starts coughing uncontrollably, further strengthening his desire to crawl under a rock and die. “It’s just that-”

He continues coughing. Good Lord, at this rate he won’t have to find a rock to die under, and he’ll just waste away here, in a rainy park, sitting next to quite possibly the most fascinating human being he’s ever met.

The stranger waits for his words patiently, offering Yuuri his water bottle helpfully. Yuuri gratefully takes it.

Once it’s apparent that he is not going to choke, he swallows a little nervously, his mouth worrying on his bottom lip.

“You were saying something?,” the stranger asks, his voice a little playful now that Yuuri’s not in any danger of dying. “Something about ‘someone like me…’”

If possible, Yuuri flushes an even deeper shade of red. “Uh, well,” he stammers. “I was just-”

The stranger looks a little expectant now, as if eager to hear what Yuuri has to say. Oddly enough, he almost looks slightly apprehensive, like Yuuri might not believe his previous words, or perhaps even scoff at them. When it becomes apparent that Yuuri has no intention of finishing his previous train of thought, the stranger sits back on the bench slowly. “I see,” he says softly, a touch of disappointment tingeing his voice, as if he had actually been looking forward to hearing what Yuuri might think of him.

Yuuri hates it immediately. The slight furrow of his brows, the way his shoulders hunch slightly, the small downturn of his lips. He hates it.

“Well!” he says a little too loudly, a forcing a laugh that sounds entirely too cheery. “It’s just that, um, I was thinking that it was surprising that you haven’t become one already? You know. A figure skater. That is.”

This is why he has trouble making friends, Yuuri reminds himself.

The stranger leans forward, eyes bright again, even a hint of a challenge in that glossy smile. “Oh, really? And why might that be?”

_Well, he’s already screwed. Might as well finish what he started._

“Because of…the way you move?” Yuuri immediately deflects his gaze anywhere but the stranger’s face, and thinks he might have imagined the quiet intake of breath that he hears. “You just seem like that kind of person. Like you enjoy being watched by other people. I mean, that’s also part of the reason why I skate, because it’s fun to express yourself through movement and all. Also, you’re in pretty good shape, like you work out, and your legs are really nice, and so are your arms, and _oh my God I need to stop talking,_ I’m so sorry-”

As if watching from very far away, Yuuri distantly watches himself dig himself into an even deeper hole of utter humiliation. His face burns. He feels like if any of the raindrops that are still falling around them came into contact with his face, they would immediately sizzle away upon impact, evaporated instantly by the heat of his embarrassment.

He debates, not for the first time, never coming back to this park again.

For a heartbeat, Yuuri hears nothing but the sound of rain and the quiet whispering of the breeze. Then-

A faint whoosh of air being blown out of someone else’s lungs, a little puff of amusement, before it grows into complete, wonderful, joyous laughter. His head jerks up, and he stares, wide-eyed, at the scene before him.

The stranger is _laughing_ , his neck thrown back fully to expose the smooth curve of his throat, silver hair falling messily in his eyes squinted shut, mouth tangled up in breathless elation. His hand comes to rest over his closed eyes.

Yuuri can’t stop staring as the stranger laughs and laughs and laughs. It’s the kind of laughter that takes over his entire body, that makes it seem like every fiber of his being is laughing with him, that makes Yuuri want to grab his skates and dance to the music of it. And _oh,_ Yuuri realizes a moment later, _the sound coming from his lips is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard in his life._

Yuuri's lips part in disbelief, and he lets out a little huff of breath of part surprise, part wonder escape from his mouth.

After a few moments, the stranger’s full-on shudders of mirth subside slightly, and Yuuri feels a smile of his own start to creep onto his face. It lasts for a brief, blissful couple of seconds, before he realizes what he just the complete disaster that had just occurred. He gasps in utter mortification.

“I’m so sorry! I’m- I’m _really_ sorry, I can’t believe I just said that to a complete stranger. I-I swear, I didn’t mean to assume that I know your life story, I promise it won’t happen again-”

But while his mouth is saying one thing, something else inside him says something else entirely. _Please, do that again. Laugh like that again._

The stranger holds up a hand to interrupt, the other still pressed to his quivering mouth, shoulders still shaking slightly. “No, please, don’t apologize. That was-well. Quite something.” He lowers his hand and opens his eyes, gazing up at something beyond the wooden roof of the enclosure. He takes a deep breath. In, out.

Yuuri feels, rather than sees, a tension slowly being released from the stranger, like it had been there for a long while before Yuuri had ever stepped foot in this park. He looks slightly different, somehow, like an enormous weight has been lifted off his shoulders. “It’s been quite awhile since I’ve heard anyone say something like that to me,” he says softly. His cheeks puff a little as he blows some of the more unruly strands of platinum falling in his eyes. He turns to Yuuri, a smile on his face. “Thank you. That was a really nice thing to hear.”

Yuuri knows that he is still staring, open-mouthed, his appearance no doubt bringing to mind that of a dead fish, and yet he can’t look away. When he finally regains some semblance of control over his jaw, he is overcome with relief.

“R-really?” he stammers, not quite believing his ears. “Well, that’s…I’m glad, then.”

Now, the stranger is staring at him, too, and Yuuri cannot bring himself to tear his gaze away. Silence falls over the gazebo once again, and many things begin to happen all at once.

A stray leaf blows in idly, comically unaware. Rain continues to drip around them, one drop after another, into quivering reflections of sky and worn wood of trees and park benches. Somewhere, deeper in the trees, a bird suddenly takes off, its flapping wings echoing under the crying sky.

Yuuri does not notice. Neither does the stranger. Two pairs of eyes, each only seeing the other.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Yuuri can’t help but think that if he happened to meet him in any other place, one that was perhaps dry, or indoors, or against the glowing lights of the city at night, he would not have given him a second glance. Yuuri knows that he, a tired, anxious twenty-something, wouldn’t have either, and it scares him. That they may have just been two other faces in a crowd, never meeting, never sharing coffee, never laughing together to the sound of falling water.

But for now, he quietly drinks in the sight of lines etched lightly under shades of blue flecked with green, the swoop of silver that never quite manages to stay out of his face. The stranger stares right back. As if they’re seeing each other for the very first time, the two simply look; absorbing, learning, memorizing.

Yuuri suddenly remembers how his mother once told him that certain people have eyes that change color depending on what they’re wearing or what they’re doing. He wonders what kaleidoscope of colors the stranger’s eyes are when he dances on the ice, decked in hues of purple and gold, gliding to the music of his own laughter.

He imagines that it would be something he’d like to see very, very much.

Unfortunately, this little staring contest of theirs is crossing into waters that Yuuri can’t quite fathom, so the stranger breaks away first, taking another sip of his coffee thoughtfully.

“Quite something,” he repeats wistfully. Followed by a quieter, “ _You’re_ quite something,” almost too soft for Yuuri to hear over the rain.

However, before he can react, the stranger is, as always, two steps ahead. He suddenly shoots Yuuri his too-innocent heart shaped smile, his brows waggling playfully. “So, I look like I work out, huh?”

Yuuri buries his once-again burning face into his hands and hunches over his knees. “Please pretend that I never said anything,” he groans, but he smiling, and he knows the stranger is, too.

He’s still smiling when they part ways twenty minutes later, after exchanging a few stories of their time on the ice. The stranger’s answers to the majority of Yuuri’s questions about his own experiences are a little vague, and not quite what Yuuri was hoping for, but he’ll make do for now. After all, they have dozens of quiet mornings to talk about whatever they wish later, courtesy of the rainy season.

He offers a little awkward wave over his shoulder from under the clear plastic of his umbrella, and the stranger waves back from the opposite end of the pathway from his own umbrella. They continue standing there in the rain, beaming at each other, before it becomes apparent that neither of them have any intention of leaving anytime soon. Unfortunately, he’s actually very late for class, so Yuuri is the first to turn away towards the main entrance, the rain-filled earth giving way with little squirks under his damp sneakers as he waves goodbye one last time.

Even as he departs from the station a half an hour later, mentally preparing himself for Minako-sensei’s lecture, the sensation of the stranger’s finger lightly touching his face, his warm breath his ear, and the sounds of his breathless laughter replay over and over in his mind, taking the usual place of his program music streaming though his earbuds and distracting him throughout the rest of the day.

It’s quite some time later, in his warm apartment preparing dinner with Phichit, bottoms of his sneakers propped up against the faded welcome mat crackling with dried mud, rain still going strong outside his window, when he realizes that he wants to hear his laughter again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my wonderful beta, J! This fic would be an even hotter mess without you lolol  
> (also, I know this is canon divergent from the movie, but I figured that it wouldn't hurt to throw in some description of some of their earlier meetings, just for fun :D. However, I will try to keep the major plot points true to the original movie.)  
> Thank you so much for reading!


	4. List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri needs a little bit of inspiration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! Thank you so much to everyone who's read this far, left kudos, or commented Ya'll really make my day and encourage me to keep going! :D  
> I hope you enjoy!

_July_

One Friday, after the last run through of his new-and-improved short program at the rink, Celestino approaches Yuuri with a proud smile. “Yuuri, that was fantastic! Even though some of your landings could still use a little work, I think that was your best performance yet!”

Yuuri steps off the ice and sits on the bench, unlacing his skates, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Well, the technical side could use some fine-tuning, but I really don’t feel like I’m embodying the theme of the piece,” he says, slightly disheartened. He had chosen this music, hadn’t he? And yet, after weeks of practice, he still can’t get it just where he wants it. He knows the story behind the notes, the emotions he wants to convey, but he can’t quite figure out which role he plays or how he should go about finding it.

He relays all of this to his coach, and Celestino considers it, his hand stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. I suppose you’re just lacking a bit of inspiration, is all.” He trails off, deep in thought, while Yuuri begins his cool-down stretches, ice skates now carefully placed under the bench.

“I feel like I’m missing something,” Yuuri muses as he reaches for his toes. “Something important.”

A moment later, Celestino snaps his fingers.

“I’ve got it. You just might need some _one_ to draw inspiration from.” He claps his hands together excitedly. “I have an idea. I’ll write up a list of some of the best performances by some medalists on the international level. You know, like Grand Prix Final, Worlds, other big competitions…you could look them up in your free time. That would be a good place to start, I think.”

Yuuri lifts his head from one of his legs stretched in a V, feeling the pleasant burn of his muscles as he reaches for his heel. “Sounds good,” he says, transferring his nose to his other knee. He could use some inspiration right about now.

Phichit skates over and leans against the barrier separating the walkway from the ice, phone screen still glowing from his daily #practicetime! selfie. “Oh, that’s right!” he chirps. “Since you’re fairly new to the ice skating scene, you might not have heard of some of these guys!”

Celestion laughs and gives Yuuri a little knowing wink. “He may be a little late to the party, but 20 years of ballet have prepared him just fine.” He bends down to give him a hearty slap on the back, leaving Yuuri wincing slightly. “I’ve been your coach for only a few years, but I’ve seen enormous growth in you. You’re gonna go far, kid, I just know it.”

Yuuri blushes. While it may be true that he hadn’t actually skated competitively until he was 15, mainly due to financial reasons, he was still proud of how far he had come. Three years after his first real competition (a small, local match in Hasetsu that was more of an exhibition routine than anything), his potential on the ice and the connections with his ballet teacher, Minako (who had been offered a job at the university he now attends), had given him the opportunity to study in the bustling city of Tokyo. Since then, he had thrived under the training of Celestino, despite the fact that the first few years had been extremely difficult. The quiet beaches of Hasetsu and the cry of the seagulls had seemed so far away, but thankfully, he had people here to support him.

It’s been a long road to where he is today. He knows that. But hopefully, with this new program, he will finally be able to skate on the same ice with those whose faces he only saw on the grainy televisions of Ice Castle as a kid, the tinny music echoing across the old rink from outdated speakers as he shadowed routine after routine for hours on end with Yuuko.

Now, at 23, the music is much louder, those faces much closer, and he is ready to take on the world.

“But _someone_ ,” says Celestino, interrupting his musings, his coach's voice almost threatening. “A certain _someone_ is never going to land their triple Salchow if they don’t stop taking selfies when they’re _supposed_ to be practicing.”

Phichit yelps and immediately tosses his phone over the barrier to an unsuspecting Yuuri, still on the ground stretching. He just barely manages to catch it, watching Phichit’s dark mop of hair flashing as he speeds away. “Gotta go!” he sing-songs, leaving Yuuri’s heart in his throat and his sweaty hands clutched tight around the phone, head still caught up in dreams of victory that taste like gold and sweat.

Tutting, Celestino turns to Yuuri with a smile. “I’ll go get you that list.”

Yuuri can feel the excitement growing in that place in his chest, warm and vibrant and _alive_ , and even though his feet are bruised and battered, he can’t help the prickling urge to lace his skates on again and dance until he can’t feel his legs, to move until his arms ache and his heart soars.

He grins back, fire in his eyes and ice in his bones. He knows just the person he wants to share this feeling with. “I look forward to it.”

*

Yuuri runs to the gazebo the next morning (it rained, thank goodness), his boots splashing through puddles and his umbrella snapping against the branches above. He can hardly contain his excitement. The list of skaters and the names of their best performances, specifically those who specialize in the art of _eros_ , is tucked away in his backpack, safe from the rain.

When he comes into view of the familiar fence, the stranger is there, as always, silver hair in stark contrast to the deep hues of green and brown. When he hears Yuuri approach, he raises his hand in greeting, blue eyes flashing, and Yuuri nearly does a double take at the leash that’s wrapped around his pale wrist. His eyes follow the line of bright polyester to land on a very large, very fluffy brown dog, and gasps in delight.

“Meet Makkachin!” the stranger says proudly as the dog perks its head up at the sight of Yuuri. “Don’t worry, he’s very friendly. You can pet him if you want!”

Yuuri, never one to pass up the opportunity to pet a dog, does so almost immediately. “He’s so pretty!” Ah, he’s in love already. The stranger preens, as if Yuuri had just complimented him instead of Makkachin.

“I _know_ , right?” He reaches down to fluff up the poodle’s fur, still slightly damp from the rain. “Aren’t you just, my little bun-eating rascal?” he cooes, slightly squishing the dog’s face between his hands.

Yuuri smiles at the term of endearment as Makkachin licks his hand curiously. “You know, I have someone just like you back home!” he says a little wistfully to those warm, wet eyes. “His name is Vicchan. You two would get along, I can tell.”

Unfortunately, his apartment doesn’t allow animals (Phichit’s hamsters are a well-kept secret he has sworn to take to the grave), so when he had moved to Tokyo, Vicchan had to stay behind. He remembers the way the little dog would always greet him when he came home from school, barking and wagging his tail and jumping at his knees. He’s quiet for a moment as his hand slows in Makkachin’s fur. “Really well…” he says softly.

Then he remembers the reason why he was in such a hurry to get here, and quickly blinks away the familiar rush of homesickness stinging behind his eyelids.

“Oh! I’m really sorry, but I have a little bit of a favor to ask.” He withdraws his hands from Makkachin reluctantly and sets his bag on the bench, rifling around to find Celestino’s list and his phone with earbuds wrapped tightly around it. The stranger looks up in interest.

“My coach gave me a list of some people who might be able to move my short program along,” he says, a little shyly. “Just some of their best performances and stuff. I was wondering if, ah, you could go through the list…with me?” He winces. Now that he’s actually here, paper clutched tightly in one hand and reality weighing down the other, this idea seems much more childish than when he thought of it yesterday. He averts his eyes to the floor and grimaces at Makkachin, as if to apologize for being so awkward. Makkachin simply flicks his ear inquisitively.

“Actually, never mind," he mumbles. "It was just a dumb idea of mine-”

“Sure!” says the stranger eagerly. Yuuri flushes at the overwhelming rush of relief and happiness he immediately feels and keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “I would love to help. Do you have the list?”

Yuuri nods to Makkachin and hesitantly hands it to him. Their hands brush for a moment. He pretends not to notice.

The stranger hums as he reads it over, and Yuuri peeks a glance at his face. “There are some good people on here,” he says, nodding approvingly. “Your coach definitely knows what he’s doing. What did you say the theme of your short program was again?”

Yuuri tries not to bolt from his seat. “Uh… _Eros_ ,” he says, this time to Makkachin. He wonders if he’s not in too deep to leave this park and never come back again.

When he feels brave enough to finally make eye contact with the stranger, he finds nothing but happiness and even a touch of gratitude. “Really? That’s fantastic! I’m so glad that you were able to find a use for it. It’s a lovely song, isn’t it?”

Yuuri doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods in response, his fingers fidgeting with his earbuds.

He receives a mischievous heart shaped smile in response that makes him gulp. “Ok, then! Let’s learn all about _eros_. Fear not, I’ll help you discover your inner playboy in _no_ time.” He wonders if he’s going to regret this decision.

Too late to back out now. The stranger returns to reading the list, long fingers trailing down the paper, making little noises of approval and shaking his head every now and then.

“Oh! Giacometti, now _he_ could teach us all a thing or two about sexual desire…"

"Not really sure why Popovich is here, but I suppose if you want more of the obsessive side of _eros_ then he’s a good reference for that..."

"Oh, the Crispino twins! They're pretty decent, although I always did wonder about their…ah, relationship…"

"Say, do you have a pen?”

Yuuri rummages around and hands him one, then watches in amazement as he makes little notes next to every name, even scribbling some suggestions of his own on the back of the paper. He’s so familiar with each of the skater’s styles, motivations, and unique little quirks, it’s almost like he knows them personally.

How strange.

Before Yuuri can remark on it, however, the stranger clicks his tongue in disappointment. “Hmm…this is a very well-thought out and comprehensive list, but I feel like some of these performances aren’t the best for this kind of theme. Is it alright with you if I mark out some? No disrespect to them, it’s just that their routines might not be of much use for your purposes.”

Yuuri finds himself nodding before he can think about it. “Of course. I trust you.” He feels his ears heating up a second later and chooses to ignore the sly grin that the stranger shoots his way, opting instead to pet Makkachin again. “I mean, it seems like you know what you’re talking about.”

Then, in a flash of braveness that comes out of nowhere, Yuuri stands up and places himself on the opposite side of the bench as close as he dares to the stranger, face flushing. Despite the obvious space between them, he can feel the stranger’s body heat, and catches a faint whiff of citrus(?) and wet dog. “I can see better from here," he says, a little challenge in his voice. _Your move._ "Continue, please.”

The stranger clears his throat, and Yuuri does a little inner fist pump at the faint blush on his cheeks. “Yes. Right. Where was I…?”

He continues to make little notes next to each name, crossing out some, laughing fondly at others. After a couple of minutes of looking up some of the stranger’s own recommendations on his phone, asking a question every now and then, one of the listings towards the bottom catches Yuuri’s eye. He squints at it, trying to read Celestino’s blocky handwriting from his awkward position.

“ _Viktor…Nikiforov_?" he reads slowly. The name rolls off his tongue like water on his window.

The stranger’s head jerks up, his fingers frozen in the middle of a phrase, blue eyes blown wide in surprise. Makkachin barks.

“What?”

Yuuri scoots a little closer and points to the last name on the list, which has been unceremoniously crossed out. “You didn’t write anything next to his name,” he explains, not noticing the look of panic that crosses the stranger’s face. “I was just wondering who he is.”

A heartbeat too long later, the stranger laughs softly. Outside their little wooden alcove, the rain falls a little bit harder, and Yuuri can hear it drum loudly on the roof above. The breeze picks up and swirls around them in little eddies, whipping their hair in a tangled frenzy in tune with the leaves and branches just outside their little world of two misfits and a dog. He moves his hand to scratch out the name again, blotting the paper until the text is no longer legible. 

Yuuri looks at him questioningly.

The stranger simply smiles brightly. It reminds Yuuri of the blinding lights that glare harshly off the ice, making him squint whenever he stares for too long.

“Oh, Nikiforov?" the too-bright smile asks. His voice is so, so cheerful. "Don’t worry about him."

A pause. Yuuri blinks.

“He’s no one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that this fic will be more loosely based off of Garden of Words than originally intended (with their age gap in canon not really playing as big of a role as it does in the movie, Yuuri being in college instead of high school, etc.) However, I still intend to keep the structure of the movie fairly similar, and keep most of the main plot points. I apologize for any confusion there may have been!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Katsudon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's favorite dish (well, Yuuri's).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi ya'll! Sorry for the wait! Class has started up again for us youngsters (rip), so it's been really hectic for the past few days. I will still continue to update though!  
> Also, thank you so much to all those who left lovely kudos/comments! I love seeing that others are reading this little silly thing of mine :3  
> Hope you enjoy!

Yuuri shifts in his chair slightly, one leg crossed under the other. He frowns at the slightly crumpled paper to his right and the dim light of his computer screen to his left. He twirls a pencil in his hand and lets out a tired sight, sitting back to stare at the darkened ceiling of his and Phichit’s shared room.

Finding inspiration for a routine based on sexual desire is pretty difficult if you’ve never really had a love life to draw experience from.

With a faint blush on his cheeks, he remembers events from earlier in the day. How it felt when cool, strong fingers grasped his wrist, gently guiding, glossy lips closing around a trembling fork full of pork, eyes sparkling with delight as he tasted it, a delighted cry of _“vkusno!”_ -

To distract himself, he hurriedly glances at his alarm clock in the far corner of the room, the red numbers glowing faintly. It’s only 8. Phichit should be back from his last class of the day pretty soon, and Yuuri recalls their earlier plans to go grab something for dinner.

Meaning that he needs to figure out this program in the next half hour or so, because he has practice early tomorrow, and there’s no time to figure it out before then. He sits up and reluctantly crosses out the Crispino twins. They had been marked as “good for familial(?) love,” and a quick Youtube search had confirmed that they weren’t exactly what Yuuri was looking for when he danced _eros._

Which only leaves Giacometti, Popovich, and a few other less notable names. Slightly guilty at having to dismiss skaters who were most likely leagues ahead of him, Yuuri slowly crosses out Popovich and Giacometti. Their performances in earlier competitions had been fantastic, but still not quite right. Popovich’s was a little _too_ stalkerish for Yuuri’s taste, and Giacometti’s had made him downright uncomfortable.

He stares at the crumpled piece of paper, now marked up with messy strikethroughs (his) and smudged notes in blue (not his).

So that’s it, then. He puts his head down wearily, flicking away his pencil. He’s out of options. The skaters on Celestino’s list are excellent, just as the stranger had said, but Yuuri still feels like he’s trying to put life into something that simply doesn’t exist.

_Eros is the love of deep, sexual desires, bordering on obsession._

_What is something that he obsesses about?_

_Something that makes him lose all common sense, something bordering on infatuation?_

He turns his head slowly, eyes landing on the inky blue-black of his window. He hears the faint hiss of water, a cat scurrying along in the alleyway below. Almost in a trance, he reaches out to draw back the curtains, revealing the side of the neighboring building, and if he were to stick his head out just slightly and crane his head upward, he would be able to see blinking red lights atop some of Tokyo’s lower buildings, set against the last sliver of slipping light in the darkening sky.

_Something that makes him lose all common sense…_

Yuuri hears the wind blow a little harder, a brief roll of thunder, promising a storm later, and he blinks.

He thinks he sees silver-gray hair, a pale hand, the curl of brown fur.

_Love?_

Blink.

 _(Long, slender fingers. Pointing, asking)_.

_“Ah this? It’s called katsudon. Whenever I’m having an off day, eating something that reminds me of home usually cheers me up.”_

Blink.

_“Do. ..do you want to try some?”_

_(A face that nods vigorously, eagerly. Gentle hands that reach out, that hold tenderly)._

_“Hey! Wait, you don’t need me to_ feed _you, that’s a little too-”_

_(Words cut off. A gasp of delight. It sounds like that of a child in a candy store, nose pressed against the glass)._

_"…"_

_(Ears tipped with flowering pink)._

_“O-oh, the recipe? Here, I can write it out for you. Only if you want it though! Haha…”_

Blink again.

_"I’m glad you like it! Um…may I have my fork back, please?"_

_(A kiss between lips that have never met, a smile)._

Outside his window, a stray leaf flies, a blur of green and brown, past his window, up into the sky that looks like it could swallow the birds whole.

He does not notice.

_“…always late to class, you need to be on time, young man. I know I taught you better than to leave your teacher waiting."_

_“Yes, Minako-sensei. I’m sorry."_

_“Now, now, your parents trusted me enough to keep an eye on you when I took a job here at the university, and I don’t think they would approve, young man.”_

_“Yes, ma’am. I know.”_

_"…"_

_“You’re still going to go, aren’t you?”_

_"…Yes, ma’am."_

_"…"_

_“I know I can’t stop you. You may be a legal adult, but to me, you’ll always be that little kid who couldn’t reach his toes the first day of ballet lessons, you hear me?”_

_“Yes, Minako-sensei.”_

_"…"_

_“Huh. Well, whatever. Whatever it is you’re doing, you really love it, don’t you?”_

_“W-what makes you say that?”_

_“Please. I used to dance all around the world, remember? I’ve had my fair share of heartbreak. Take it from your teacher. She knows love when she sees it.”_

“Love…?” The word is foreign, caught between reality and the foggy, ethereal mess of memories.

A drop of water taps against the glass.

The door bangs open just as Yuuri stands excitedly, his chair clattering to the floor. “I’ve got it!”

Phichit walks into the room, shoes in hand. “I’m home!” He chucks his backpack on the floor with a satisfied noise, and looks up to see Yuuri opening the window with a flourish, letting the cool air rush in. His papers fly off his desk and flutter to the ground, ink and rejected names and old assignments. Phichit looks on with amusement. “Something happen?”

Yuuri smiles at the retreating sun, letting the wind whip around his hair, black tresses flying wildly. He turns back to Phichit, eyes alight.

“My eros!” he says. “I’ve figured it out! It’s the _rain!_ ”

This declaration is followed by a moment of silence. The curtains are still flapping loudly, papers still shuffling around on the floor, on the desk, on the walls, as if confused.

The wind howls.

Yuuri realizes _it_ a little too late, because by the time the first tendrils of red begin creeping down his neck, Phichit is already in hysterics.

Yuuri proceeds to fling himself onto his bed, face flaming.

“I’m _really_ sorry, Yuuri!” Phichit gasps between giggles, his hand clutched around his mouth. “It’s just- you looked so _serious_ just then! With the dramatic window opening and your _face_ oh my _God_ , I’m dying- I would have _loved_ to get that on camera.”

Yuuri burrows himself deeper into his comforter and wonders if his parents would mind flying in from Hasetsu for his upcoming funeral.

The only sounds in the room are Phichit’s choking, the oncoming storm whirling in Yuuri’s ear, and the fluttering of paper all around, as if to mock him.

Eventually, Phichit’s gulps for air become less frequent. He wipes a few stray tears from his eyes and pads over to Yuuri, who seems to be attempting to merge his existence with his bed. He pokes him in the side playfully. “Aww, Yuuri, I’m sorry! I think it’s a great idea, actually! If there’s anything you really love, it’s rainy mornings. I think I would know, being your best friend and all.”

He gives a noncommittal grunt from his pillowcase. That now marks the second person who seems to be convinced that he’s in love.

“Or hey, maybe it’s _who_ you see on rainy mornings, eh?”

Yuuri doesn’t deem this with a response. Phichit takes this as incentive to continue.

“Tell me, are they cute? They _are_ , aren’t they! No wonder you’ve been so happy recently. I know I would be, skipping class to talk some mysterious cute guy. Unless it’s not just _talking_ that we’re talking here, if you catch my drift-”

He chucks the pillow at Phichit’s head.

“Okay, okay, I get it. But now you have your inspiration! Isn’t that what you wanted?”

With a sigh, Yuuri flops over onto his back as Phichit leans over his desk to shut the window. The room, so full movement only a moment ago, suddenly goes very still. He blatantly ignores the messy state of the room and looks interestedly at all the opened tabs on Yuuri’s laptop.

“It was,” Yuuri says, sighing again. “But now that I really think about it, it sounds really stupid.”

“Hmm. I think you could make it work, if you really wanted to. You checked all the names on Ciao Ciao’s list?” Phichit clicks play on one of Giacometti’s videos curiously. “Yikes.” He closes the tab almost immediately.

“Well, all but one.”

“Well, why don’t you check them out?.” Phichit searches the ground for the small slip of paper, crouching down to eye level with Yuuri’s chair, still lying facedown on the floor from his moment of revelation.

Yuuri shrugs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He rolls off the bed unenthusiastically and begins rearranging his desk, now scattered with loose-leaf bits of paper and notebooks half open to random pages.

They’re silent for a few minutes, retrieving all of the windswept bits of paper and tidying the cup of pencils that had been blown over.

 “Although, where _did_ it go?” Phichit asks, now on his hands and knees, feeling under Yuuri’s bed. “It was just here a second ago, right? Did it grow wings and fly away or…?” he trails off.

Slowly, as if being pulled by puppet strings together, they look at the closed window, the wind still howling outside.

“Oops,” says Yuuri.

“Well, shit,” agrees Phichit.

They turn their heads from the window to look at each other.

Yuuri is the first to start laughing. Not as loudly as Phichit, and not as beautifully as the stranger, but his own, quiet kind of laugh.

For a few, blissful moments, he forgets about _eros_ , about lists of names of skaters who seem so close yet so far ahead, about handsome strangers with adorable dogs and sad, sad smiles. He’s twelve again, laughing with his friend over something as stupid as letting the wind eat his homework, and everything’s ok.

When they calm down a little, Yuuri’s grin still fading off his cheeks, Phichit’s face suddenly turns serious.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to keep looking? You could always ask Ciao Ciao for another copy, you know.”

Yuuri thinks about it, then shakes his head. “No, I think it’ll be ok. I don’t want to trouble him anymore than I already have.”

With a sigh, Phichit slings an arm around him. “Yuuri. How many times do I need to tell you? You’re not a burden to anyone. I know he won’t mind.”

“Thanks, Phichit. But I think I’m ok. I guess I’ll just have to channel my love for the rain when I skate, that’s all,” Yuuri says playfully, giving him a little nudge. (Mari always reminds him it’s always ok to poke a little fun at yourself, after all).

“Alright, whatever you say, Rainlord.”

He takes it back.

“I hate you.”

“Nah, you love me. Now let’s go get us some food! I’m absolutely starving.” He stands up quickly and saunters out of the room to grab his signature baseball cap. “Oh, and you might want to bring an umbrella. Looks like we’re getting a storm tonight.”

Yuuri hoists himself off the floor and follows him, the last traces of laughter still tingling his cheeks. Before he crosses the doorframe, he takes one last wistful glance out the window, where the one thing that might’ve given him some inspiration has been spirited away with the whisperings of future rain.

He thinks.

“Hey, Phichit?” he calls, still staring out the window.

“Yeah?” Said friend is near the front of their apartment, already opening the door, muttering about lighting and angles for Instagraming their next meal.

“Do you know who ‘Viktor Nikiforov’ is?”

There’s a flash of lightning that he can’t quite see from his alley window, but he can imagine how it cuts through the sky, a blade that rips a tear through the heavens. A moment later, thunder roils ominously, not near enough for Yuuri to feel it, but close enough that he knows something’s coming.

This is followed by a loud bang, no doubt from the coat rack hitting the ground, followed by a colorful string of choice language. Yuuri sighs. Phichit must have tried to take a pre-dinner selfie while putting on his shoes again.

“Sorry, did you say something, Yuuri?”

Shaking off the feeling that he’s forgetting something, Yuuri tears his gaze from the window and comes into view of the foyer to see Phichit sprawled on the ground, camera in hand, one shoe in the other. He grins sheepishly.

“Ah, never mind. Let’s go eat. I could kill for some katsudon right about now.”

*

Across town, the man in question is riding a bus home. He stares out the window at the darkening scenery blankly.

Another day gone.

When the bus comes to a stop, jostling the other patrons, he winces slightly, moving to cover his knee as it gives a faint twinge.

The humidity will do that to him, sometimes. He still hasn’t quite gotten used to it.

When the driver calls out his street over the scratchy microphone, he slowly gets to his feet, his bag slung loosely over one shoulder like a dead thing, groceries weighing down on the other.

He knows that if he looks past the faded red of his bag, he will see the familiar golden sheen of blades peeking through the skating guards, the iPod he hasn’t charged in months still where he last left it. He knows that if he were to hear the songs he knows are still downloaded on it, every note, every beat, would be as familiar to him as the back of his hand. He knows how it feels to move his body in time to the rhythm of it, how it feels to cross one foot over the over, how to position his hands and twist his wrists just so.

It’s not his fault that he no longer knows what, exactly, he is dancing for.

He doesn’t look at his bag again.

Well, Yurio might say otherwise about him. With a wry smile, he thinks of how the feisty teenager would tell him he’s being melodramatic again, to stop moping around in Japan (of all places!) and come back to Russia to choreograph his senior debut program. He reminds himself to call him later, just to check up on how he’s doing.

As he walks down the street towards home (well, as close to home as he can get), he feels a strong gust of wind blow around him, ruffling his bangs and making his plastic grocery bags swing in the air. _Where did that come from?_ His answer comes shortly afterward from the grumbling sky above.

_It’s going to rain._

A flare of hope courses through his veins, as fleeting as the spring breeze, before settling down to rest in the pit of his stomach.

With new purpose, he sets off in the darkness towards his apartment, not wanting to get caught up in the rain. He darts under the pooling lights of gold from the streetlamps above just as the first drops begin to dot the sidewalk.

He squints through the steadily increasing drizzle when he passes the playground where children play in the morning, and he sees the weathered swing set, the creaking carousel. Nothing extraordinary there.

Then he blinks, and he thinks sees a little blue umbrella with poodles on it, a fairy-dusted blush, a pair of pretty pink lips, slightly chapped.

He turns his head to look, and there’s only the swing set, slowly rocking back and forth as the storm approaches.

How strange.

He makes it to the stairs before it starts to actually rain, and hurries up five flights with relative ease, ignoring the dull ache in his bones. Then, he’s riffling for his keys, turning the lock, greeting his dark apartment that echoes in a way that’s a little too familiar. Makkachin bounds in a moment after he removes his shoes, tongue lolling and tail wagging excitedly.

He crouches down to give him a hug. “I’m home!” he says, squishing his fluffy face between his hands. “Thanks for watching the place for me today. As reward, I have a treat for you!” At the mention of the word ‘treat,’ Makkachin gives a yip of excitement.

He stands. Looks at the bag on his arm. After a moment, he places it in the corner of the foyer, where he normally puts the week’s trash. He smiles at Makkachin.

“Guess I’m still learning to walk, aren’t I?” His voice is soft.

Makkachin wags his tail again.

He decides to ignore the offending corner, and holds out his bag of groceries for the poodle to sniff eagerly. “I’m starving. I’d bet you are too, aren’t you? Well, don’t you worry; a good friend of mine gave me his mother’s recipe for his favorite food! Isn’t that great?”

Makkachin barks happily, following after him into the kitchen. He sets the plastic bags on the counter and moves to the sink to wash his hands, glancing out the window. In the dim reflection of the kitchen light, he sees himself, face slightly less haggard than normal (it must be because his all his recent time spent outdoors, breathing in fresh air), and beyond that, the sight of the rain blowing nearly sideways. He gives a low whistle of appreciation. There’s really going to be a storm tonight.

Hand washing complete, he slowly, carefully, as if handling something precious, reaches into his pocket. He turns the paper over in his hands for a moment, folded many times over the course of the day, and opens it to read the neat, precise swoop of each letter. There’s even a little doodle of a bowl, steaming hot, with little matching chopsticks in the corner, the ink slightly smudged from water and creases visited again and again, almost like an afterthought.

He sets the piece of paper down on the counter and claps his hands together enthusiastically, just as he sees light being thrown across his bare kitchen cabinets. A moment later, he hears the booming clap of thunder. Makkachin nearly pounces on him, ears quivering in fear.

Viktor voice is soothing as he places a kiss to the top of the poodle’s head. “Shhh, it’s ok, Makkachin. I know. Hey, let's do something fun while we ride out the storm, huh? Want to make some katsudon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have time feel free to come and scream with me about these dorks on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/chubsthehamster) or [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/chubsthehamster) :D


	6. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last day of spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Lunar New Year! (for those of you who celebrate :D)  
> I'm so sorry for the wait! School has been really rough the past couple of weeks, with a couple other personal things to worry about. But I'm so happy to be back! I will finish this fic if it's the last thing I do, never fear.  
> Thank you so much to all those who left comments and kudos! I know I sometimes take awhile to reply, but I always smile at each and every one! <3  
> Hope you enjoy!

Yuuri’s eyes dart up from his notebook to steal a glance at the stranger. He finds those blue eyes looking back at him in amusement. He looks down quickly, ears red, pencil hastily scribbling some undecipherable note.

The rain has been slowing down for the past few days. July is dying, after all, and with it, Tokyo’s rainy season. Yuuri thinks of the hot summer days to come in place of these cool spring ones, hidden under the trees, and his chest aches a little.

“Did you find your inspiration?” says the stranger suddenly, breaking the silence.

Yuuri starts and slowly raises his gaze to find that the stranger has closed his book to meet his eyes. A little distantly, Yuuri sees that it’s the same book from when he had first seen him. _Stay Close to Me_

He feels his voice catch in his throat. “Ah. No. I-”

He trails off. “I’m still not sure,” he says softly. He fingers the edges of his notebook, a nervous gesture. Props his glasses higher on his nose. “I guess I need to keep looking.”

The stranger tilts his head back to rest against the wooden pillar behind him, his forehead brushing the blooming flowers that hang down from the gazebo’s roof. They drape around the enclosure like a kind of pink curtain, their petals gently swaying in the breeze.

Suddenly, the stranger stands up with a grin. “Do you want me to help you find it?” he asks, eyes bright.

Yuuri nearly chokes. “What?”

The stranger gives a small smile as he peers down at Yuuri. He tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind his ear. “I know a thing or two about ice skating remember?”

Yuuri recalls a past conversation, from the first time he had told the stranger about his aspirations all those weeks ago. _Yes._ He stays quiet, worrying his hands in his lap.

When he doesn’t reply, the stranger extends a pale hand with a wink. “C’mon,” he whispers excitedly. “It’ll be fun.”

He looks up at him, the other man’s expression eager and waiting, and is hit with a sense of near panic.

_He doesn’t want this to end. Not now. Not ever._

_The rainy season isn’t over yet. There’s still time._

With much more confidence than he expects, Yuuri reaches out, and takes the stranger’s hand in his own. The man gives him that heart shaped smile. “That’s the spirit.”

Yuuri gets to his feet. He opts to not look at the other's face, so he stares straight ahead. He’s not as tall as the stranger, so all he sees is the smooth curve of his neck, the brightness of his raincoat collar.

The rain is still trickling down, down, down. It’s just loud enough that Yuuri can hear it whisper against the roof, but quiet enough that he can hear the stranger’s breathing.

Yuuri tentatively places one hand on his shoulder, and the other in the stranger's outstretched palm, his grip strong and safe. With a huff of laughter, the man counts softly, “And-ah one-two-three.” 

They begin to dance a kind of waltz, the tune set by the stranger’s quiet humming and the melody of water from the sky above.

Yuuri lets him lead as they move in slow, small circles in the little space they have. He doesn’t recognize the song that resonates under the alcove, but it sounds like a careful caress, a whisper-touch, from the hollow of the stranger’s throat, and he finds that he likes it.

He’s pulled in closer to the broad, warm chest, then is twirled back out with a gasp in surprised delight. The world blurs into blue and silver, pink and green, blue and silver again. When he opens his eyes, he finds that their noses are nearly touching. He smells coffee and chocolate and citrus, and then it’s all replaced by sun-kissed grey clouds, because he’s suddenly being dipped, low to the ground, the strong weight of the stranger’s hand supporting his back. He hears the _whoosh_ of air and feels a drop of water on his face as he’s lowered _into_ the rain outside the enclosure, and a quiet gasp slips from his lips. A smile makes its way on his face.

_Oh, two can play that game._

He comes back up with a grin of his own, and shifts his hands from the stranger’s shoulders to his waist. The stranger laughs, the same laugh of surprise and wonder that Yuuri just knows he could choreograph a thousand programs to, just detailing every exhale of breathe, every inhale of amusement.

He doesn’t have time to do that right now, but he _can_ do what Minako-sensei has instilled in him since his childhood.

So together, they dance.

This time, Yuuri is the one who leads, hand on the small of the stranger’s back, glasses slipping slightly off his face. He knows that his lips are tugged upward, his smile a curve of teeth that is almost challenging, and he can’t help the giggle that escapes him.

One foot teasing the other, changing course ever so slightly to avoid slipping off the edge of platform. Flowers the bright colors of spring, a flash of smile bared to their little world of two like a secret. A quiet intake of breath as Yuuri returns the favor. He dips the him below the height of the railing, and the stranger’s long leg extends gracefully into the air. His raincoat brushes the damp wood.

The stranger’s weight is heavy, but Yuuri is strong, toned from years of athleticism. He hoists him back up and sees his silver bangs fall messily into his face. Yuuri’s not sure exactly what he should do now that he switched their roles, but it doesn’t matter, because suddenly they’re chest to chest again, and Yuuri feels warm breath ghosting across his lips.

He doesn’t dare breathe.

_Drip._

He _can't_ breathe.

Slowly, gently, tenderly, the stranger lifts a hand. He removes Yuuri’s glasses and sets them on the bench, never taking his eyes off Yuuri’s. He lifts his other hand and brushes Yuuri’s hair out of his flushed face, fingertips lingering for a moment.

Yuuri finds himself mirroring his movements. He trails a path down the side of the stranger’s face, his fingers shaking slightly, and his palm comes to rest holding the other man's cheek. The stranger does the same, slowly moving his hand down the length of Yuuri’s arm, dusting ever-so-lightly, to his own face, atop where Yuuri’s hand rests. His palm fits over Yuuri’s perfectly, like it’s meant to be there. His eyes flutter shut, grey eyelashes like fairy wings, as his hand cradles Yuuri's, which in turn is pressed against his own face.

Yuuri marvels at the sight.

_Evenings, before I went to sleep._

_Mornings, in the moment I woke up._

_I realized_

_I was praying for rain._

Watching the stranger’s slightly blurry face, a look of contentment relaxing his brow, Yuuri allows himself to move just a bit closer. He’s very near now, so close that his breath stirs his silver bangs.

The world has gone very, very still.

He thinks that he wouldn’t mind if it never moved again.

The stranger’s eyes open, and Yuuri sees himself, his expression wide with wonder, reflected in a pair of spring-sky blue. He smiles,  _eros_ incarnate. Or perhaps something entirely different. 

When his reflection mimics him, Yuuri seems to snap him out of a trance, and it all comes rushing back. Who he is, where he is, what he’s missing, what he wants. He quickly slips his hand out from under the stranger’s cheek and takes a step back.

The stranger’s expression is slightly blurry now that his vision is impaired, but all Yuuri can see are those eyes, achingly bright.

“There was a- a leaf. In your hair,” he stammers, busying himself with retrieving his glasses on the edge of the railing. He makes a show of inspecting them for invisible smudges of dirt, lifting them to the space above his head, so that he doesn’t have to meet eyes with the stranger.

By the time he’s finished, vision cleared, the stranger is wearing his usual friendly smile. It crinkles the edges of his eyes and curves little dimples around his lips. “Oh, I see. Did you find what you were looking for, by any chance?”

With a start, Yuuri realizes that his other hand is still holding on to his. He looks down at their intertwined fingers and reluctantly untangles them.

“Yes,” he breathes.

The stranger steps back, arms going to hold themselves behind his back. Yuuri wants to reach out and hold them again.

“Good,” the stranger says, voice like petrichor. “I’m glad.” He offers a stained-glass smile, so beautiful that the sky weeps harder.

Yuuri feels his heart break just a little.

*

They are officially on break for the summer, which means that he and Phichit are hosting a little celebratory dinner, as per the request of Phichit, who claims that they need to “deepen their bonds with one another off the ice.”

It also means more work for Yuuri, who is the only one in their group of friends who actually knows how to cook a decent meal.

“Hey, Yuuri, why are you always late to class when it rains?”

Yuuri, who is attempting to reach for the measuring cup in the kitchen cabinet above, nearly falls off his perch from the stool. Luckily, he steadies himself on the spice shelf. Unluckily, he also knocks it over, and pepper and oregano and paprika containers rain down on the kitchen floor. He repositions his glasses on his nose. “What?”

Phichit leans his whole body over the edge of the faded couch, scrolling through Instagram leisurely. “You heard me. You’re always late to Minako-sensei’s class whenever it rains.”

“Yeah,” chimes in Guang-Hong thoughtfully, his hands in the process of braiding Leo’s hair on the same couch. “Have you met someone?”

Yuuri hops off the stool to scoop up the containers of salt and considers chucking one of them at Phichit’s head. “No,” he says defensively. “I just really like the quiet. And it just so happens that the park is really quiet when it rains, since no one’s outside. It relaxes me.”                                                                                    

“But Phichit said that you came home the other day with two empty lunchboxes,” Leo giggles, his head in Guang-Hong’s lap. “So unless you’re just really hungry on rainy mornings, then there must be someone you’re sharing them with."

“Phichit!” Yuuri squeaks, betrayal written all over his features. “I thought I told you not to mention that!”

His best friend merely shrugs and snaps a selfie with Guang-Hong and Leo in the background. “Aww, but Yuuri, it was so cute how you even stayed up late the night before just to make the extra lunch! The little ketchup on the omelet in the shape of a smiley face was really adorable-” He ducks a little too late as the basil sails hits him square in the forehead. “Ow…”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Yuuri says, the tips of his ears steadily reddening. Having successfully avoided death by spice containers, unlike Phichit, he announces, “Who wants to help me make dinner?”

Only Guang-Hong gives a noise of assent.

However, paprika raised threateningly in hand, he convinces the others to help out as well. Soon enough, the small kitchen is bustling with the sounds of knifes chopping, pot lids clattering, and friendly chatter.

It’s not until after Yuuri takes away Phichit’s phone for the third time so he can _cut these damn tomatoes or so help me I’m calling our Internet provider_ that Phichit brings up Yuuri’s absence from class for the second time. “You’re no fun!’ he pouts. “I’m just trying to find who’s been to Shinjuku Garden lately! They’ve gotta be on Instagram somewhere!

Yuuri, who has taken it upon himself to cut the tomatoes, nearly slices his finger off. “ _What_?”

“Yeah!” chirps Phichit. “This person that you’re always so happy to see is a figure skater, right? So I figured we probably have some of the same mutuals, since the skating community here isn’t that large.”

Yuuri feels like dunking his head in the pot of water that Leo is currently boiling to cook the noodles. “H-how did you know…?”

Phichit beams. “Aha! So I _was_ right!”

From the sink, Guang-Hong says, “Leo, you owe me fifteen dollars.” Yuuri and Leo collectively groan.

With a shit-eating grin that would have looked downright devious on anyone other than Phichit Chulanont, he nabs the knife out of Yuuri’s slack and hand and waves it around with a flourish. “It’s quite simple, really,” he exclaims. “First, you suddenly had this stroke of inspiration to change your short program music. Which, by the way, is completely fine, since you’re pulling it off really well.” He winks suggestively, as if to prove his point. “You’re practically _melting_ the ice, it’s so wet out there.” He ignores Yuuri choking on air and continues. “Secondly-”

“You also kept asking Ciao Ciao if there were any newcomers to the rink recently,” says Leo, the tired air about his voice that lets Yuuri know that this conversation has taken place multiple times before, without Yuuri’s knowledge. That, and the fact that Guang-Hong is now triumphantly pocketing his lunch money for tomorrow. “Which also happened at the same time you started disappearing from class.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean that he’s a figure skater-” Yuuri protests.

“Ah, but wait! You haven’t heard the best part yet!” says Phichit excitedly. He points the knife directly at Yuuri. “You, my friend, are very, _very_ happy when it rains. Like, to the point where you even outshine Guang-Hong sometimes.” He points the knife in the general direction of Guang-Hong, who is rubbing small circles on the back of Leo’s hand comfortingly and smiling.

“And the best part?” The knife is now pointed back at Yuuri. “It shows in your skating. You’ve been incredible out there, especially this past month.”

“Not that you haven’t always been incredible, Yuuri,” Leo says affectionately as he looks at Guang-Hong’s hand over his, lost money now forgiven and forgotten.

Phichit grins again. “And  _voila_ , your mysterious rain buddy? Figure skater. Boom. Damn _,_ I’m good at this. I should be a detective or something. Also, nice to know it’s a dude who’s stolen your heart.”

“And how did you know-?”

“Well one, you just confirmed it. Two, you said ‘he’ earlier. So, yeah. Honestly, Yuuri you make it too easy sometimes.”

Yuuri can feel a headache coming on. “You guys are so creepy,” he mutters, taking the knife back from Phichit before he can hurt anyone. The three of them beam.

“But we were right, weren’t we?” asks Guang-Hong. “It’s so nice that you’ve found someone that enjoys the same thing you do, Yuuri!”

“I haven’t ‘ _found anyone’_ , it’s just…”

“I’m sorry, what did you say? Didn’t catch that.”

Yuuri busies himself with chopping the tomatoes into small, equal pieces, the way he was taught by his mother. “I mean, he’s _kind of_ cute…and really nice…and he has a dog…” He feels his face heat up, and he glances at the others nervously, gauging their reactions.

His friends’ eyes have all grown as wide as saucers, hanging onto every word.

“Holy shit,” whispers Leo. “Yuuri, why haven’t you married this guy yet?”

Yuuri lets out a groan of frustration and begins to chop even faster. “It’s nothing like that,” he says, cheeks burning.

The three of them share a knowing look from behind Yuuri’s back. Phichit nods ever so slightly to the other two, and they nod back, understanding gleaming in their eyes.

“Alright, alright, we’ll drop it.”

Yuuri sighs in relief.

“But if you’re taking him home, just let me know at least a day in advance, alright? I need to stock up on some supplies so ya’ll can stay safe-”

“ _Phichit!_ ”

Phichit has to duck to avoid the wrath of the cutting board, cutting a swath of tomato juice through the air as Yuuri halfheartedly swings, but he’s laughing.

Behind his flush of embarrassment and stuttering protests, Yuuri is too. (But Phichit doesn’t need to know that).

After last of the dishes haven been cleared away and Guang-Hong and Leo depart with a cheerful “Good night, lover boy!”, Yuuri sinks into the sofa, tired only in a way someone who’s nearly at the end of their school career can be. Phichit plops next to him, feet up in the air over the edge of the couch as he hangs upside down. “Yuuri,” he whines. “You really need to start showing up to class, otherwise Minako-sensei is gonna keep pestering me. You know your mom asked her to keep an eye on you.”

Yuuri lets out a tired sigh, his eyelids drooping. “I know. She really does care, doesn’t she?”

“Of course she cares!” protests Phichit. Then, a little softer, “We all do. Say, Yuuri-” he shifts to peer down at Yuuri, his glasses shifted slightly off his nose, eyes now closed sleepily. “Are you happy?”

Yuuri thinks about it for a second. “Yeah. I am, Phichit,” he breathes. His voice is soft as he drifts, conscience somewhere in the veil between waking and dreaming. He knows that the move to Tokyo hadn’t always been the easiest for him, but Phichit being there had always been a source of comfort. Even though his homesickness had never really gone away, it was nice to know that he had a support group here with him. Not to mention a certain someone who made it worth getting up in the morning…

“Is it because of... whoever it is that you see when it rains?”

Yuuri can feel his toes curl in happiness as he remembers the stranger and how their eyes lit up, his open hand, offered willingly, the warm weight of his arm on his shoulder, the quiet mist of water the only music they needed as they danced. “I think so.”

Because even though he doesn’t even know his name, it _feels_ like he knows him as well as Phichit or Yuuko or any one of his friends, even though he could only have really talked for a handful of rainy hours. Wonderful, beautiful hours of water and light and canopies of pink flowers swaying in time with their tangled limbs.

Yuuri knows that he likes to drink coffee black. He knows that he has weird affinity for chocolate and beer, even when it’s eight in the morning. He knows he’s the owner of an adorable dog, is considerate and quiet and kind, has eyes that are sometimes blue, sometimes green, and sometimes neither. He knows that he harbors a love for the sport Yuuri himself is so passionate about. He knows that he reads strange books about loneliness and hums quietly when he thinks no one’s looking, and laughs freely when Yuuri is. He knows that he can be a little teasing, lips in the shape of hearts and smiles that feel like no one else in the world should be able to see.

But Yuuri _knows._ He has seen. And he has been watching since the moment he stepped foot in that park.

He wonders, vaguely, in the back of his sleep-addled mind, if this is what it’s like to fall in love.

“I hope it rains tomorrow...” he mumbles, a soft smile gracing his lips before he falls asleep.

Phichit looks at him fondly, gently removes his glasses, making sure to drape a nearby blanket over him while he’s at it. “I hope so too, Yuuri,” he whispers, patting his arm affectionately.

He silently thanks the person who’s breathed life into his best friend when he dances and a smile on his face on rainy mornings, and goes to turn out the light.

*

Across town, Viktor Nikiforov watches his ceiling fan twirl idly in the dark, his arms propped behind his head, Makkachin dozing on his stomach. 

Outside, the glowing lights of Tokyo reflect through a few idle droplets on his window.

He wonders what the weather will be like tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone remember that scene from the movie where he measures her feet? Well, Yuuri isn't a shoemaker in this AU but he is a dancer, so I tweaked it little. I hope the feeling from that scene came off the way I wanted it to :3 (also if the sentences in first person and italics seems familiar, it's because it's a quote from the movie! If you couldn't already tell, I really love this movie heh)  
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> if you have time and want to scream some more about these dorks you can find me here on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/chubsthehamster) or [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/chubsthehamster)


	7. Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End of the rainy season. Yuuri goes back home. Viktor calls a certain angry teenager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive, don't worry! Sorry for the really irregular updates, but school has been killer lately orz. As a result, this one's a little shorter than normal, but I'm crawling towards the light at the end of the tunnel that is Spring Break. (;﹏;)  
> Much thanks as always to my wonderful beta, for always being so encouraging and positive. And of course, to everyone who's ever read this little thing of mine. Y'all are the best. :D  
> Hope you enjoy!

_August_

 

It does not rain again. The wet season ends on a dry, warm night, just like any other. The newscaster’s voice is pleasant as she announces the end of spring the next morning, 10 whole days later than normal.

Yuuri wishes those 10 days had been just a bit longer.

He does not go back to the garden.

*

He and Phichit are off for a month before they complete their last semester, so Yuuri flies back home to Hasetsu to see his family and help around the inn. Fortunately, Yuuko grants him special access to the Ice Castle rink, so he stays in shape, practicing his quads and attempting, with only minor success, to perfect his short program.

When his train arrives at the familiar station, he doesn’t bother checking what the weather is like in Tokyo. Even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

(Not that he wants to, or anything).

Mari is there at the station when he arrives, toting a bag of groceries in one hand and a dog leash in the other, Vicchan straining against the nylon to reach Yuuri. His tail wags enthusiastically at the sight of his owner, and he barks happily.

“Vicchan!” Yuuri says with a smile, bending down to scoop him up. “How are ya, boy? You’re getting so big!”

Mari grins down at him from above. “What, no hug for your own sister?” she laughs.

“It must have been scary, staying with her while I was gone,” he whispers into Vicchan’s soft fur. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oi.” The groceries descend from above as Mari swings the leeks at his head. Luckily, the canned dog food is in the other bag. “I’m the one who feeds him, you know.”

Yuuri stands back up with a smile, letting go of Vicchan to retrieve his suitcase from behind. “I know,” he says softly. “It’s good to be back.”

Mari gives him a once-over, eyes critical. “Hmph”. she turns around quickly, shopping bags almost hitting Yuuri’s knees.

“Welcome home, little bro,” she says, not unkindly.

Yuuri knows he’s not the only one who’s missed him being here, in Hasetsu.

He gives a wistful glance at the clear summer sky, devoid of any clouds, the sun shining as brightly as ever. _I’m home._

“Good to be back,” he says softly, and follows quickly after his sister.

 

At dinner that night, his mother attempts to stuff him with every dish she can possibly make. She had taken one look at him when he first walked through the front door, pronounced him to be “way too skinny,” and had set about preparing as many pork cutlet bowls as she could.

Yuuri thinks tragically of his diet, and digs in.

While he’s stuffing his face, Mari sits opposite from him at the low table, palms propping up her chin.

“Yo, Yuuri,” she says. “When are you comin’ back home with a cute boy for us to meet? It’s been four years since Yuuko got married, and I think Mom is sad that she doesn’t have any grandchildren yet. Although I _guess_ I wouldn’t mind being an aunt.”

Yuuri nearly chokes. “ _What?_ ” he gasps. “That’s very funny¸ but I’m not-”

His mother comes in with yet another bowl of katsudon, and Yuuri’s stomach both groans and rumbles. “Mari’s right,” she says, having heard their conversation from the kitchen. “Yuuri, dear, I would love to have a son-in-law! It’s gotten too quiet, now that you’re out of the house.”

Ignoring Mari’s muttered “Wow, didn’t know I was this unwanted around here,” Yuuri takes a swig of his water bottle hurriedly before speaking. “Mom, I have to focus on skating. There’s really no reason for me to be seeing anyone right now.”

“Really?” she says, voice incredulous. “But you’re such a handsome young man!” She pinches his cheeks affectionately. “Don’t worry, honey, I’m sure you’ll find someone. Tokyo is a big city! Lots of cute boys and girls for you there.”

“Yeah, there must be someone who can you put up with your weird rain fetish,” Mari says snidely, and he flushes a deep red.

“It is _not_ a-what you just called it,” he defends. “The rain just relaxes me. It’s like-it’s like the sky is just-”

“ ‘-telling me something through the rain,’” she finishes, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I remember having to drag my ass out of bed to open the window for you everytime you heard thunder because you were too short to reach the latch.”

“Language, Mari,” says Yuuri’s father, who has just walked in from manning the front desk. He smiles at Yuuri proudly. “What’s this I hear about you meeting a nice boy?”

Yuuri drops his head to the table with a painful thud. “Why,” he mutters, “is everyone so worried about my love life?”

“We just want you to be happy,” says Hiroko cheerfully. “If you already are, don’t worry about it! Now, how is your skating thing coming along?”

Yuuri lifts his head from the table and picks at his food with his chopsticks. “It’s ok,” he offers, remembering his failure to figure out his short program. It’s his own fault, really, since he was the one who picked it. And now he’s worrying about wasting his parent’s precious time and money, attending a university in Tokyo so he can train for a sport he’s really not cut out for, missing his family, his dog, his hometown... “It could be better,” he finally admits.

Mari hums sympathetically. He feels a comforting paw on his leg and looks down to see Vicchan’s large eyes. He remembers another poodle, slightly bigger, eyes just as bright. His family gives him a moment to collect his thoughts. They’ve always been good at that.

“But I think I’ll figure it out,” he says with a small smile, reaching down to pet Vicchan’s ears.

“I believe you will, Yuuri,” his mother says quietly. “You know we’ll always support you here, alright?”

He nods, throat suddenly tight.

Mari’s eyes are smiling. Yuuri smiles back.

Hiroko looks down at her children in approval, then, deeming them finished with their meal, pats Yuuri on the cheek and asks him to help with the dishes.

(He does so gladly).

 

*

 

He had been a legend, once.

Every gold medal, every summit of every podium, ever whisper of the audience gasping. He had missed it. Still misses it.

_“Are you ready?”_

No.

_“Yes.”_

_He ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach, and steps onto the ice._

_He’s gliding across frozen water, bright lights shining at him, from him. He waves. They, the faceless, roaring crowd- smile and raise their arms in return._

_The music begins, and he feels like he’s flying._

_He does not notice he’s flown too high._

_Then the lights are too, too bright. He can’t see. He drops his hand to steady himself, and no one notices. They are all too busy looking at something above his head. He looks. Is something there?_

_There is nothing there. Nothing but blue flowers in the shape of a halo, a past long gone._

_He look down, and sees that the ice has turned into the ocean. He does not hear the seagulls he knows so well._

_And then, he falls._

_Down, down, down._

_He doesn’t know if he hits the ground._

_Just that there is pain everywhere, from up and down and in-between. He tries to get up, to wave to the audience, let them know he can still stand._

_This time, they do not wave back._

Viktor Nikiforov wakes up with a jolt, gasping for air. He sits up, startling Makkachin, and looks around his room, still slightly unfamiliar after a few months of living here. Nothing is out of place. He brings his hands to his face, still breathing hard. Makkachin blinks sleepily at him, licks his hand comfortingly.

He sighs.

It has been 2, almost 3, months since he arrived.

It has been 6 months since he last went near a rink.

It has been much, much longer since he last heard the crowd roaring his name.

Rolling over on his side, he glances out the glass doors across the room to his balcony, where the city lights twinkle in the darkness. He reaches for his phone and squints at the screen; it’s the dead of night.

He decides he could use some coffee.

So he rolls out of bed and treks through a door to his small kitchen, where the balcony comes into full view, darkened shapes of plants and a windchime casting shadows on the tiles. While warming up the water, he debates whether or not he should call Yurio. Given the time difference between Tokyo and St. Petersburg, he should be getting home from the rink about now.

Viktor grabs the nearest mug, pours some coffee, then rejoins Makkachin on his bed, reaching for his phone. It would be nice to hear familiar voice right now, even if it came from a sarcastic teenager with anger issues.

Yurio picks up on the third ring, not fast enough to show that he cares, but not slow enough that Viktor might change his mind and hang up.

There was a period of time, fairly recently, when he probably would have.

“What do you want, old man?”

_Aah, he feels closer to home already._

“That’s not a nice way to greet your superior, Yura,” he whines, transferring his freshly steaming mug to his other hand, phone buried between his shoulder and his ear. “You should be grateful I was thoughtful enough to call, especially since it’s so late over here.”

He hears a scoff. “As if. I’m shit tired, too. Yakov has been running our asses like there’s no tomorrow ever since you left.”

Viktor hums. “Well, I hardly see how that’s my problem. Besides, your step sequences have always been sloppy, so I can see where Yakov is going. You know, if you just-”

“Shut up! First of all, don’t tell me what to do,” he snaps. “Second of all, it _is_ your problem, ‘cause you’re the one who ran away the minute you ‘lost inspiration’ or whatever bullshit reason you gave Yakov that somehow convinced him to let you leave.” Somewhere in the middle, he switches from English to Russian, his words becoming more and more stilted with anger. Viktor chuckles, shifts his knees so he’s sitting cross-legged.

“But as a famous poet once said, Yura, ‘if you don’t have inspiration, you’re as good as dead,’” he says lightly, twirling finger across the rim of his mug. “So of course they let me take a little vacation. It was imperative that I find myself again.”

“Viktor. It’s been two years. Two. Years. The least you could do is make yourself useful and choreograph my senior debut, instead of running away to some dead-end rink to coach a bunch of losers. Why Tokyo, for God’s sake?”

He considers the question. It’s not the first time he’s been asked it, and he knows it certainly won’t be the last.

Might as well avoid it for awhile longer.

“Well you see, my dear little Yurio,” Viktor sing-songs, chuckling at the huff of anger on the other end of the line. “I’m not ‘running away,’ as you said. I am simply taking a little time off from skating for now.”

“Face it, Viktor, you’re running away. You’re just a coward who’s too scared to face it-’”

“Furthermore,” he continues, ignoring Yurio “This is _not_ a dead-end job. This was an excellent opportunity from a good friend of Yakov’s to learn about the joy of coaching other skaters. Tokyo is an amazing city, too. You would like it here!”

At the other end of the line, Yurio snorts. “Yeah, right. I would _not._ ” There’s a pause. Then, aggressively: “Mark my words, Nikiforov. Stay off the ice any longer, and soon you won’t have jackshit to teach anybody.”

Viktor leans back against the headboard of his bed and smiles. It is not a friendly one, not in the least. It most definitely is not one that he reserves for windy mornings of water and dancing. “You forget who you’re talking to,” he finally says, voice dangerously neutral.

“I haven’t,” Yurio shoots back venomously. “But if you don’t shape it up soon, or at least officially announce whatever the hell it is you’re up to, then the rest of the world _will_ forget you.” _“Even though I won’t forget you,”_ he doesn’t say. _“I’ll just beat you, and make them forget you.”_

Viktor says nothing, only stills his fingers over his cooling coffee.

The silence stretches on for another tense moment.

“But,” Yuri finally says, words only slightly mumbled. “I _might_ consider visiting. Only if you promise to actually make good on your own damn promises and put together a program that will get me the gold for my senior debut. And tell me what I’m doing wrong with my…whatever.”

Viktor smiles again, this time genuine, but not entirely innocent. “Sorry, what promise?”

“Whatever, asshole. I said _maybe_. I also need to check out the competition other there, since I’m going to be wiping the ice with their tears this year.”

Speaking of other skaters, Viktor suddenly remembers. “Oh, Yuri! There’s someone here with the same name as you! He’s a skater too! I think you two would really, ah, get along. You should come down and we can all hang out together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

He hears spluttering. “What the hell? Ugh, no. You sound like Mila when she won’t shut up about Sara. I don’t wanna meet some loser you think is cute, especially since I’m going to crush him. If he even makes it to the international level.”

“But he’s so _entrancing!_ ”

“Shut up. I’m hanging up now. I’ve had enough of your bullshit.”

“We met in a park when it was raining, and I helped him find his short program music, and we _danced_ together and it was _so_ romantic! Also, I only know his name is Yuuri because I saw it on one of his books, so-”

“I’m hanging up.”

“-so he doesn’t know who I am, but I don’t think it really matters, since he hasn’t recognized me yet, which is a little weird since he’s a skater? Maybe he started the game a little late. But _Jesus,_ his glasses are just the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen-”

The call ends without further notice. Viktor stares at his phone screen for a moment, wondering how anyone could ever hang up on him, especially since the topic of discussion was someone as interesting as Yuuri. He tuts fondly and tosses his phone to the pillows beside him, then places his now-cold mug on the nightstand.

After a few minutes of petting Makkachin, he looks back out towards the city, at the dark sky.

The moon is completely alone, a little slice of light in a black sky devoid of any clouds, the red lights of Tokyo’s skyline twinkling like artificial stars brought down to earth.

He hears a faint gust of wind blow past his window, and he wonders if he has been brought down to earth as well.

“I’ll go to the rink tomorrow,” he tells Makkachin, who wags her tail in response. “Gotta show Yura who’s boss. I’m _not_ running away. I’m just…” he trails off. Makkachin gives him a doubtful look.

“Anyway,” he mutters, moving to turn out the light. “There’s no reason in skipping my responsibilities now that he doesn’t show up anymore.” He curls up, hair tickling his cheeks.

The space between his sheets are soft and warm, and he closes his eyes.

_I’ve always been here, stuck in the same place._

_Tomorrow, then. I will get back on my feet tomorrow._

With the odd sensation of falling still swirling in his gut, and _forget you forget you forget you_ echoing endlessly in his head, he falls into an uneasy sleep.

In his dreams, he thinks he hears rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so angry cat son makes an appearance! I wasn't quite sure what role he would fit into in Garden of Words, but I'm taking a lot of creative freedom with this AU so whoopsie. Sorry, Yurio. :3  
> Oh, I wasn't sure on whether Makkachin or Vicchan were male or female, so I winged it! Either way, they are both very good doggos 13/10 would pet always.  
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> if you have time and want to scream some more about these dorks you can find me here on [twitter](https://twitter.com/chubsthehamster) or [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/chubsthehamster) :D


	8. Meeting pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their second real meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! School is keeping me so busy I can't write nearly as often as I would like :'(  
> Hope you enjoy!

When he gets back to Tokyo, the first thing he does is check the weather reports. He tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach when he sees that there is only a slight chance of storms in the Shinjuku Garden area. 

“Hey, Yuuri! Phichit!"

He looks up from his phone and sees Guang-Hong, Leo, and one of the underclassmen, Minami, walking into the rink, their bags slung over their shoulders, wide smiles all around. “Hey, guys.”

“How was your summer?” Guang-Hong asks sweetly.

Phichit follows up close behind Yuuri, linking arms with his best friend. “I want to know, too! It looks like you ate well. Your Insta was making me all kinds of hungry, mmm mmm.”

Minami nods eagerly. “Yuuri, it looked fantastic! I can’t believe you get to eat all that food when you go home!”

With a laugh, Yuuri shrugs. “It's not good for my diet, but it was pretty amazing. But hey, I worked a lot on my routine too, and helped around the inn.”

“Wow, Yuuri,” Leo whistles. “You’re making me feel bad about my depressingly unproductive break.”

They begin walking through the cool hallways of the rink, towards the locker rooms. “That’s all it is, with this guy,” Phichit says proudly. “Work, skate, work, and skate.”

“Hey, I play hooky sometimes,” Yuuri chuckles.

“I’ve noticed that!” chirps Minami. “Sometimes you show up late to first period.”

“He only misses when it rains,” Phichit says, a little slyly.

“Really?” Minami is downright gaping now, as if he can’t believe that his idol sometimes skips class. 

“I have a condition where I can’t ride the subway on rainy mornings,” Yuuri says with an air of fake importance. “It’s really serious.”

Their little group laughs at this, just as the door to Celestino’s office slides open. Celestino and another man walk out. 

(Yuuri can almost see how his silver hair flashes in the light of the morning sun streaming in through the windows. He thinks it looks really nice against the light blue walls of the hallway. Hey, it’s almost like-)

Three things happen in this moment.

_One._

Yuuri stops, his eyes wide. A burst of air forces its way through his lungs, punches though his lips.

_Two._

The stranger stops.

From he, too, a sharp breath escapes, as pointed as blades on ice.

_Three._

Time itself stops, its lithe fingers holding them like dolls in a playhouse. It almost seems to laugh, a child’s quiet huff of amusement, at their complete and utter surprise.

Yuuri blinks.

“ _Viktor Nikiforov?”_

Yuuri doesn't hear Phichit's question, just the shape of his words, how they sound coming from his friend's astonished mouth.

(Time restarts without any indication that the world had stopped in the first place. Yuuri doesn't notice).

Slowly, as quietly as he dare, he turns his head, eyes unbelieving as they track Phichit and Minami dashing excitedly to the man standing next to Celestino.

 

_Who...?_

He can’t breathe.

“Oh my God. I can’t believe it’s really you!” says someone’s voice, pitched high with excitement. It takes Yuuri a moment to pinpoint who it is.

Minami. It’s Minami.

“That’s me!” says the man brightly- _no,_ Yuuri thinks, detached-  _whatever Phichit just called him. Viktor Nikiforov?_

_Where has he heard that name before?_

The man in question looks around at the little crowd that’s gathered around him. “Starting today, I’m going to be helping around the rink! I look forward to working with all of you.”

His smile is blinding white, all teeth and no room for familiarity. It looks like something on a poster, like a reporter’s camera flash directed too close.

Then his eyes meet Yuuri’s, and the smile fades slightly. He seems like he wants to want to say something.

_Ah._ _He remembers now._

Yuuri thinks that, while he may look exactly like the man he met all those months ago, the one who he confessed his dreams to, poured out his heart to, danced with in time to the rhythm of rain and wind,

he has no idea who he is.

_“Who’s Viktor Nikiforov?”_

_“Oh, don’t worry about him.”_

_“He’s no one.”_

 

“Holy-oh my god,” murmurs Guang-Hong, somewhere behind him. “Why is he here? I thought he-”

Leo gently shushes him. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions, now.”

Yuuri can’t listen any longer.

So he does what he does best, what he has been doing in rainy gardens for months now, listening to a stranger say pretty words and letting him sweep Yuuri off his feet.

He runs.

 

*

 

Phichit finds him on the roof.

“Hey,” he says, sitting down criss-crossed next to him. He says nothing more, just watches the miniaturized people below and the clouds slowly drift along above, and Yuuri is grateful. He isn’t quite sure what there is to say.

After a few minutes, he lets his head rest on Phichit’s shoulder.

Phichit hums, acknowledging that he’s listening. 

“Sorry for ditching again,” Yuuri finally says, as some students in the courtyard below them toss around a baseball. “I hope Minako-sensei wasn’t too mad.”

Phichit chuckles softly. “Nah, you know her.”

They’re quiet for another moment or two.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Phichit asks, turning to Yuuri. Yuuri takes a breath. “I guess.”

Another quiet hum.

Cloing his eyes, Yuuri says, “There was just someone I thought...I kinda knew. Fairly well. But I didn’t. Know them, that is.”

Phichit raises his hand to pat Yuuri’s head. “Aww, Yuuri.”

“Yeah.”

From their vantage point on the roof, they watch one of the kids catch the ball, then stop mid-swing as one of his friends says something. The kid looks at his hand intently, then throws the ball back to his friend with an intensity that’s almost scary. Yuuri wonders what it’s like, being 15 again.

He was a little like that boy, he supposes.

Though, he was probably a lot more naïve.

_You still are._

“Hey, Phichit?”

“Yeah, Yuuri?”

He pauses. “Who was that guy earlier? At the rink? ‘Viktor...’”

“Oh, Nikiforov?” Phichit’s voice is a little more excited, now, but since Yuuri’s head is resting on his shoulder, he does not see the wrinkling of his friend's brow, the tightening of his mouth. “He’s a five time gold medalist, also known as the _living legend._ He practically ruled the ice skating scene up until a few years ago.”

Yuuri feels his stomach curl with dread. He can feel the hesitation behind Phichit's words. “But…?”

Phichit hums again. “Hmm, let’s see…when was it exactly? About a year or two before we met, I think. Skating accident. It wasn’t anything too major, but he was out of commission for a few months. When he finally recovered, he just…never came back, I guess. There were a lot of rumors that he had lost his inspiration before his injury, so he kinda retired. Disappeared from competitive skating entirely.”

When Yuuri doesn’t say anything in response, Phichit continues sympathetically. “Though I can’t imagine why Nikiforov is here, working with Ciao Ciao.”

_Oh._

He looks at his hands, at the ground below, at the chalk drawings on the roof floor, of the gate that encloses them. Anywhere but the sky.

_How completely, utterly stupid he must have seemed then, the first time they had met. And the second. And the third. And the-._

“And that’s why I’ve never heard of him. Because I started skating too late.” His voice sounds all wrong, too many choked syllables and cut-off breaths. 

_And now, he'll know just how incompetent Yuuri has always felt. Always been._

“Katsuki Yuuri, you have more talent than anyone I've ever met,” Phichit says sternly. “You are an _amazing_ skater, and you even have all that ballet experience under your belt!” He gives a distinguished sniff. "If you're worried about NIkiforov thinking any less of you, I don't care if he's won every gold medal to ever exist. I  _will_ kick his ass."

He can feel his eyebrows becoming slightly less knit together, the corners of his mouth quirking slightly upward. “Thanks, Phichit,” he says with a puff of air, like a tired sigh.

“You’re welcome. What are best friends for?”

“Yeah.” From his position on Phichit’s shoulder, he pokes him in the side affectionately, earning him a whoosh of empty air whenever his friend jerks to the side violently (he's the most ticklish when Yuuri catches him by surprise).

They laugh, and Yuuri is—just a bit-- ok.

“Alright, let’s go apologize to Minako-sensei for you,” Phichit says with a sigh, rolling off the ground. “Even if you have known her all your life, there’s got to be _some_ limit to the number of absences you can take.”

“I really need to apologize to her about that,” he says, genuinely sorry. He takes Phichit’s offered hand with ease, pulling himself up.

“Speaking of which, how are your romantic escapades with mysterious hot guy going at Shinjuku Garden? Been there recently?” Phichit teases. 

Yuuri takes a moment to look down at the courtyard, and sees that the kids have left, leaving only a dusty tennis ball on the hot concrete.

Then, he finally looks at the sky, achingly summer blue, lazy puffs of clouds here and there. In the distance, he sees darker shades, perhaps promising a storm, but he knows better than to hope. He shakes his head.

“No. It hasn’t rained.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crosses fingers* hoo boy I hope I got That Scene at least slightly right :D


	9. Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor Nikiforov is both a stranger and a companion.  
> (Maybe someone more).  
> Who, then, is Yuuri Katsuki?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hasn't updated for nearly 6 months*  
> hi, everyone (if you're still here lol). *finger guns* i'm back

Viktor Nikiforov did not mean to mess up so badly.

(He also didn’t mean to fall in love, either, but he digresses. He “didn’t mean” a lot of the things he’s done in his life).

So instead of apologizing to ghosts, he stares at the water, toes nearly touching where pond turns to earth. His barely-there reflection ripples ever-so-slightly in the breeze, a memory more than a mirror. He feels, rather than hears, the footsteps behind him, but does not lift his head, not even until they come to a stop.

_Too far away,_ he thinks.

_Come closer,_ he does not say.

As if in reply—

“ _Hanarezumi sobaniite,”_ says a soft voice. “Stammi Vicino.” A pause. “Your free skate music from you last competitive season. You were...” Another pause. “Well.”

His reflection wavers.

“Yes. That is correct,” he says to the water, at the man who seems to smiling so, so sadly. (He doesn’t quite know why). After one last glance, he turns to face him. “I was a little surprised that you hadn’t heard of me. I mean, everyone in the skating community…knows.” He chuckles softly. “I suppose you’ve always been in your own world, Yuuri.”

Then, Viktor’s eyes widen at the bandages taped carefully over the other’s cheek. He has to restrain his hand from moving of its own accord. “What—?”

Yuuri’s hand goes to his check, almost like an afterthought. Viktor almost wants to hold it there. “Oh, this? I was acting like you, drank too much beer, and fell down while attempting a quad.” His eyes flicker up to meet Viktor’s, and Viktor knows almost immediately that he is lying. Still, the curve of Yuuri’s mouth is enough to tug at the corners of his own, so he complies.

“Really, now?” he laughs quietly. “Did that fall also end your career?”

Yuuri looks him straight in the face, calmly. Viktor has to look away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

A strong gust of wind drowns out the rest of his words, whatever they were supposed to be. It swirls through the trees, tears across the lake, makes the wooden arches above them creak and strain. Lighting cracks the sky apart in one fell swoop, reverberating through their bones.

It begins to rain.

But unlike the rain that he’s used to, the rain that comes in the brief space between the explosion of life during spring, and the long, dry days of summer, this rain is _cold._ As cold as ice.

_How ironic._

As the rain begins to mist and steam along the banks, he and Yuuri make a run for it, towards the shaded area he now knows like the back of his hand. He follows Yuuri’s dark hair, and lets loose a breathless laugh into the air.

Still, no matter how fast he runs, the rain quickly seeps into his hair, his clothes, cold and creeping. By the time they’re under real cover, he’s soaked to the bone.

“Wow,” says Yuuri, voice muffled as he looks out at the howling storm. He sneezes. His teeth are chattering rather adorably.

Viktor watches him. “Wow,” he agrees.

They both laugh as the world turns to water around them.

~

Over the bridge.

Past the gates.

At the traffic light. (It says it’s alright to cross).

Up the set of worn stairs, to an apartment door tucked away on the seventh floor.

It’s been awhile since Makkachin has been this excited, Viktor says. Please excuse the mess. Come in, let’s dry off.

He busies himself with racking the eggs, cutting the onions into neat, precise wedges, the way Mari taught him. He feels like if he doesn’t focus entirely at the task at hand, he may end up saying something he regrets.

A glance over his shoulder. Viktor is ironing their damp shirts, his back turned to Yuuri. He can’t see his face, but he can imagine the little crease between his brows, the silver bangs falling in his eyes. The face he made when he listened to Yuuri’s words in the garden, words of complaint about some drill, of fear of not being good enough, of their mutual love for the sport they’ve dedicated their lives to.

How funny that he knows this man, inside and out, but he is still a stranger. Full of surprises.

_Who are you?_ he wants to ask.

But when Viktor turns around inquisitively, he quickly asks which cabinet the extra measuring cup is in instead.

“Food’s ready!” he calls whenever the last plate is finished. He sets down their food on the low table adjacent to the kitchen as Viktor clears it of their freshly pressed clothes, now hung elsewhere in the apartment. Viktor’s shirt, slightly too big for Yuuri, hangs off his shoulder, and tugs at his drawstring pants rolled at the cuffs when he sits down.

“Let’s eat.”

Makkachin rests his head in Yuuri’s lap, and they eat. Laughter against rain, no different than usual, except, perhaps, there are no lies between this time, the usual air of mysteriousness replaced with the smell of a home-cooked meal, the flowers they know so well now the pale walls of Viktor’s apartment. _It’s nice._

After their plates are empty, their stomachs filled, Viktor asks, “Would you like some coffee?” Yuuri nods gratefully in reply, moving over to sit between the couch and Viktor’s balcony window, where he can watch the rain. (And perhaps something else). Makkachin follows suit.

He takes the steaming cup with a nod of thanks, trails his fingers along its rim. Viktor goes back to the kitchen counter, no doubt to pour his own cup, completely devoid of any cream, just like Yuuri knows he prefers it.

Outside, the sun filters weakly through the disappearing storm clouds, warming the tile where Yuuri’s feet shift softly, followed closely by thumping of Makkachin’s tail. The lazy rise of steam, the faint tapping of the rain’s fingers on the window, the peaceful silence that wraps around the apartment. It’s comforting, almost in the way the ice rink or his hometown is.

_I think this might be_ —he thinks, fingers twirling idly around Makkachin’s fur,

— _the happiest—_ thinks another, lips smiling softly as he leans against the counter to watch them,

— _time of my life._ (Makkachin nuzzles against Yuuri, as if in agreement with the both of them).

Viktor, in turn, takes a sip of his coffee and wonders— _how he could be so lucky_?

And perhaps it is precisely he is so warm and comfortable and— _right_ —that he says, voice quiet. “Yuuri.”

Yuuri looks up from his mug, face open. “Hmm?”

“I think I've fallen in love with you."

_Plip._

A heartbeat passes. Then two. By the third, there is a faint pink making its way across Yuuri’s face, and his eyes are so wide Viktor thinks he could get lost in them. He waits, patient.

Strangely, Yuuri’s facial expression does not change any further. Instead, Makkachin starts whining, and lifts his head in distress at the change in the air.

Knowing he may not get an answer, Viktor moves to sit in the chair beside the window, across from Yuuri. “I think…I was practicing how to walk on my own. In that place.” They both know the place he’s referencing. “Even if I’m no longer what I used to be, I…”

Yuuri finally looks up. “You…?”

“I would just like to thank you, Yuuri.”

He waits another moment before he says, “You know, when I came here, I didn’t think I would find myself again.” _Find myself in you_ he doesn’t say. “I would…it would be my pleasure to be there for you, always. As your coach. If you would like.”

Yuuri’s, lips part slightly. _Coach? Me?_ “I—”

Yuuri thinks of every word he’s ever shared with him, and every word he’s left for the rain instead. He remembers that he is still a novice, and that this is Viktor Nikiforov, world-record holder, master of his sport, willing to impede his recovery to coach a late bloomer who has never seen international competition.

He thinks, and he remembers, and he realizes that there is nothing he can do to lessen the pain of all that Viktor’s lost, no matter how much he’s willing to give to take it all away.

After all, rain and gardens of words may be enough to fall in love, but not for reality.

And the reality is, Viktor Nikiforov was—is—always meant to be something, while Yuuri is _nothing._

(He never was particularly good with these kinds of things).

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice distant. “I know that…you have your whole career waiting for you back home,” _Wrong, wrong, wrong._ “So I won’t hold you back.” He sets his cup of coffee down and stands up quietly. “Thank you for lending me these clothes.”

Viktor looks like he wants to bolt from his seat, but he doesn’t. “But they’re not dry, yet…” he trails off, turning to watch as Yuuri disappears to change. No reply. Then, he faces Makkachin, still curled up next to the window forlornly, and looks at his coffee cup. He brings it to his lips, as if in a daze. Sets it back down. His hair falls around him.

It continues to rain.

Yuuri reemerges with his still-damp clothes on. He inclines his head. A formality. “Excuse me…I’m going home. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Viktor stands up abruptly. He almost says something.

He doesn’t.

Yuuri leaves, the metal door creaking as it closes, then giving a resounding _bang_ when it shuts.

Viktor sits back down slowly. Watches the water from outside reflect on their mugs. Watches the rain fall.

He buries his face in his hands.

~

Yuuri walks like the flowers do: swaying, prone to blowing over at the slightest touch of wind, dying in the vestiges of summer. He flower-walks in the hallway, then past the first landing, then onto the second. Then the third.

He’s at the entrance of the apartment complex before he realizes it, and looks up at the view of the sky from here one last time, through the pouring rain. He doesn’t even have an umbrella with him.

Oh, right. He left it at home. Which was why he got soaked, and had to come here. With Viktor.

Viktor.

_“Two figure skaters in the same park. Imagine that!"_

_“I would love to help.”_

_“Oh, Nikiforov? Don’t worry about him. He’s no one.”_

_“Hanarezumi sobaniite.”_

_“Did you find your inspiration?”_

_“Stammi Vicino.”_

“ _Did you find what you were looking for, by any chance?”_

_“Stay Close to Me.”_

_“It would be my pleasure to be there for you, always. If you would like.”_

_“I think I've fallen in love with you.”_

Viktor.

He turns from the sky to instead stare at the window on the seventh floor, the one he was just sitting at.

_“Yuuri.”_ _  
_ And then he’s running. Running faster and harder than he’s ever run in his life, up the stairs from whence he came, past the first landing, not caring about the rain, or how he trips and bruises his knees, or how his muscles protest as he takes the steps two at a time, because now he’s on the third floor, up and up and up, until finally—

He stops dead and sees _Viktor_ , who, if possible, looks even more out of breath than he does, like he just ran six flights of stairs, too, and suddenly, he’s _angry._

“You!” he yells, hands braced against his knees. “You _knew!_ You knew who you were, you knew what you went through, and you _knew_ what I wanted to be!” The words tumble from Yuuri’s mouth, months and months of words that were never said. “ _So why didn’t you say anything?_ Is it because I’m not good enough? Just _tell me,_ then! Tell me I shouldn’t even bother, because I’m too weak, because I started skating late, because I don’t even know who _Viktor Nikiforov_ is, because I’ve never been in a _real_ competition.”

Viktor simply watches at him from three steps above, his eyes dangerously close to mirroring the weeping sky.

“Tell me now, because if you would’ve just _said something_ , then maybe I wouldn’t have wasted your time! You have so much you could do, so much you could be, so _why me?_ You knew everything from the very beginning. _So_ _why would you want to be with someone like me?_ ” Yuuri shouts the last question with all of his breath, almost desperately. _Why me?_

Perhaps it’s fate mocking him—but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, the rain stops, leaving them to echo in the space between them.

But only for a moment.

Because then, when his voice has just died away, the sun comes alive, bright and blinding through the clouds, flinging sparks of gold across Viktor’s face.

And as the world explodes with color, Viktor takes one step and closes the gap so fast it’s like they were never even separated.

Although he’s taller, he bends to fit into Yuuri’s arms, and suddenly, they’re both crying.

“Every morning,” Viktor chokes, and there’s something lodged in his throat that makes it hard to breathe. “ _Every morning,_ I would get up to go to the rink. I would put on my skates, and look at the ice… _but I was scared._ I was so, _so_ scared, Yuuri. I just…couldn’t.” He holds himself against Yuuri’s chest, like he’s trying to keep the seams of himself together. Yuuri raises trembling arms to help him, and squeezes tight.

“Because I’ve been lost for a long, long time, and it’s my own burden to bear, not anyone else’s. Not yours. Back there, in that place…” Viktor says, voice wobbling.

Yuuri’s eyes fill with a summer’s worth of rain as he starts shaking, and he moves to stroke soft, silver hair.

“You saved me.”

They stay there like that for a long, long time, as the rain continues to fall through the sunlight, through their muffled crying, through their already-soaked clothes.

It rains and rains and rains—and it’s like it will never, ever stop.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, so if you might have noticed, I changed a couple things! I know that in the movie, Yuuri (young shoemaker boy) is supposed to be the one to confess and Viktor (teacher) is supposed to reject him, but I honestly couldn't see either of them doing that? So, to keep it somewhat in character, I flipped them!
> 
> in addition, it's been awhile since i've updated (i apologize!), but i really did try to give the emotional scenes the attention they deserve-- those parts always makes me tear up when i watch them.
> 
> well, if anyone is still here by now, i just want to say: thank you very much for reading, and for sticking with me for this long! there will be an epilogue, but as to whether or not I keep the original ending to the Garden of Words movie, well. Stay tuned, I guess! 
> 
> special thanks to my beta (@wistfullywishing) for all the love and support. you're the reason i'm still here, J. <3
> 
> always open on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/chubsthehamster) or [tumblr](https://trashycaswrites.tumblr.com/) to scream about yoi or anime stuff in general! (read: i am a huge sucker for seasonal anime, so rn my obsession is bnha lol)


	10. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri meets Yuuri. Yuuri meets Viktor.  
> It's all very simple, really.  
> (warning: mild language @Yurio)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [julie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wistfullywishing/pseuds/wistfullywishing) (so sorry i'm late)

_December_

_Fuck, it’s cold as balls._

Yurio steps inside the entrance to the rink, teeth chattering slightly. One would think that after all the years he’s devoted to dancing on literal ice, in fucking _Russia_ no less, he should be well-equipped to deal with sub-arctic temperatures. But the world has a weird way of screwing him over sometimes.

 _Now, where the hell is Viktor…_ He checks his phone to make sure that this is the right time and place, and then his bag, for the package he was asked to deliver to freaking Katsuki Yuuri in return for getting some killer advice on his step sequence.

Not that he needs it or anything. He’s just here because he wanted to check out the competition.

_Yeah, that’s why._

Instead, he spots none other than the fake Yuuri — _I’m the real Yuri, dammit_ —and is even more pissed off.

He’d assumed that the one giving him pointers was going to be Viktor, but…

“Oi, Katsudon,” he says, by way of greeting. The guy looks up from breathing into his palms and smiles genially, like he isn’t facing down the Ice Tiger of Russia.

“Hello, Yurio,” he says pleasantly, breath still fogging up his glasses. “Chilly today, isn’t it?”

For some reason, this makes him even angrier. “As if,” he scoffs, forgetting his earlier chills. “Your ass would be frozen solid if you ever came to St. Petersburg.” With an annoyed it _tsk_ , he stomps away.

But for some reason, his _leave me the fuck alone_ body language doesn’t seem to be getting through to this guy, as always.

“Oh, Yurio!”

He rounds on him like a demon. “Don’t call me that!”

Yuuri holds his hands up in defense “Sorry, my bad.” The dude looks almost apprehensive for a moment, and Yurio feels both pleased and pissed off. “Listen, I was told…well, do you need any help with your step sequences? I’m not too great at them myself, but I was just wondering… ”

Oh, he cannot _believe_ the nerve.

He mumbles something like “Stupid old man, tattling like a baby.”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Fuck you, that’s what.”

He continues his angry, hands-in-pockets stalk to the locker rooms. _Who does he think he is, anyway?_

Then he slows, face dissolving into one of worry. Unfortunately for him, Viktor was still the best in his field, and that meant his advice actually stood for some shit. And if he set him up to work with this loser on something Yuri has always struggled with, then…

_Besides, your step sequences have always been sloppy, so I can see where Yakov is going._

Shit.

When he emerges from the locker room, properly livid now, he sees the fool stretching leisurely, like he has all the time in the world. What the hell?

“Oi. Are you just gonna sit there or are you going to actually…”

 _You know you need to work on it, Yuri,_ says a voice in his head. _Shut up,_ he responds. “…help me, dammit?”

“Of course!” Yuuri replies brightly, reaching into his bag for his skates. “Just one sec.”

Yurio figures that’s good enough, and turns heel towards the rink entrance and removes his guards.

“Stupid Viktor for making me come all the way here. Dumbass. Idiot. Where the hell is he, anyway?” Yurio mutters under his breath as he steps on the ice.

“Hey, do you know where—?” Yuuri follows him, his own skates flashing under his feet.

“No idea,” he retorts while he skates as far ahead as possible, because it makes him angry he was unknowingly caught worrying about the asshole. “He’s probably off doing something stupid again. Not that I care,” he tacks on, just in case anyone noticed.

Yuuri takes note of this with an all-too-knowing nod, then lags slightly farther behind to watch Yurio’s movements. Yurio does the same, observing the enemy from afar. Although it pains him to admit it, the guy is good. His movements are fluid, like a true dancer’s, and he definitely has the skill for some of the more complicated jumps. He does not look like someone who has never been in a real international competition.

“Your timing is off just slightly,” he supplies helpfully when he skates past.

_I take it all back._

“Shut up!”

But no one comments on anything when Yurio does the drill again and again, changing his feet alternate just slightly until they’re nearly perfect.

Nearly.

At the end of their first set of drills, they head back for a water break. At the gate, he notices when Yuuri glances at him a few times nervously.

“Hey, could you teach me how to land a quad Salchow?” Yuuri finally asks in a rush, gesturing to himself. “I’m still not able to get it right.”

Yurio can’t help the startled expression that flashes across his face. _Me?_ He thinks back to countless hours toiling at his home rink, jumping again and again until he gets his movements exactly right. He’s seen the bruises on Yuuri’s feet, the way the guy skates to his own music, and knows that he’s not the only one who practices until his legs give out.

 _This is stupid._ He blushes slightly and turns his nose up, like a housecat who just fell and didn’t want anyone to see. “I guess,” he says after a moment, trying not to look so pleased.

Yuuri smiles. Yurio refuses to admit that he looks like a nice person, not a pathetic loser, when he does, and steps back onto the ice with an annoyed scowl.

Eventually, the large clock on the wall reminds them that it’s almost time for the rink to close up for the day, and Viktor still hasn’t showed. Not that he’s surprised in the least.

Unless, of course, Viktor set him up to work with the other Yuuri. Now that he thinks about it, that’s exactly the kind of shit the smiling baldie would pull on him.

_Bastard._

He watches the other Yuuri step off the ice and wonders if he should just go ahead and drop his end of the bargain, because the stupid old man didn’t do jackshit to help him.

But…

He thinks of his newly improved step sequence.

He hates owing people anything, especially competitors.

_Ugh._

“Wait, Katsudon,” Yurio says, voice resigned. The idiot turns around, a question on his features. It pisses him off even more that he can read the other guy so easily, even though they’ve only known each other for a few weeks at most (and thanks to a certain lovestruck idiot, he knows the guy eats pork cutlets like a madman, hence the nickname).

He skates up, steps off the ice, puts on his guards, plunges his arm into his bag. Pulls out the parcel, stomps back to an inquisitive Yuuri, and shoves the package in his unsuspecting hands. “I was told to give that to you,” he huffs. “It’s not from me.”

Yuuri looks down and sees a small envelope. It’s wrapped in dark blue paper, with little designs that look like sparkling jewels and red accents.

“Thank you?” Yuuri says, like a question. With a scoff, Yurio returns to the ice, determined to get in a few more minutes of practice.

He tries to act uninterested as Yuuri opens the package, slightly curious himself. What was so damn important that he had to deliver this stupid thing _by hand_?

Yuuri seems to squint to read it, his glasses no doubt somewhere else.

And then he _bolts_ , nearly tripping over himself to remove his skates and jamming his glasses onto his nose.

“Where are you going, Yuuri?” asks—w _ho is that again?_ _The skater from Thailand always calls him Ciao-Ciao_. The man seems appalled when Yuuri sprints past him, still shoving his skates into his bag, not even acknowledging the man.

Yurio almost ignores the concerned look that flashes across Ciao Ciao’s face.

But because he knows the look of someone who feels like they need to run to get somewhere before it’s too late—

_Sirens, bright lights, reporters,_

_“wait, what do you mean, the old man fucking fell?”_

_“…semi-permanent damage…”_

_“awww, was Yuri worried about me? Don’t worry, it’s just a little break, nothing serious!”_

_one month._

_then two._

_then three._

_“I think I need to take some time off. Just…for a little while”_

_then four._

_“There’s nothing in skating for me now.”_

_five._

_“I’m going to Japan.”_

_six._

_“Yuri, I think I’ve found my new inspiration! His name is—”_

“He’s going to see that idiot Viktor!” Yurio finally hollers from the ice, shoving all the memories down. To his relief, his voice sounds normal.

But because no one can see him from this distance, he almost allows his eyes to soften slightly. Almost.

 _Stupid Viktor,_ he thinks as the other Yuuri runs out of the rink like his life depends on it. _Stupid, stupid._

He goes back to perfecting his step sequence.

~

The air is _cold_ , and his breath unfurls in front of him like smoke. With a shiver, he readjusts his hamster-patterned beanie (courtesy of Phichit), then approaches the gate to Shinjuku Garden.

Because of the winter conditions, he supposes, there is no one here. His change slides into the machine with a soft _click,_ as familiar as taking off his shoes when he arrives home. Aside from the crunch of snow underfoot, it is completely silent.

He thinks of his no-doubt warm apartment (Phichit can’t stand the cold), ready with dinner.

_I should be somewhere else right now._

Past the now-frosted banks of the pond, its surface as still as glass. Of course, he can’t skate on it, but he wants to.

_I should be somewhere else right now._

Over the creaky wooden bridge, taking care not to slip on patches of ice.

_I should be somewhere else right now._

Finally, after ducking slightly under the vines that watch over a little alcove he knows all too well, their once-pink fingertips dusting the top of his head with snow, he sees a slight curve of a smile, a foot tapping a little impatiently, childlike. He smiles.

 _I should be nowhere else but right now_ thinks Katsuki Yuuri, age 24, lost in the beauty of the man sitting before him. He watches the slight smile on the other’s lips grow into pure light at the sight of him, and simply admires.

“Yuuri!” Viktor says, perking up. “You’re here!”

Yuuri snaps out of it, and can’t help but raise one eyebrow, holding up the note reading _“meet me in the garden”_ in loopy handwriting. “You said to meet you?”

Viktor claps his hands. “Excellent, I see Yurio was able to give it to you! How were his step sequences?”

“Someone taught him well,” Yuuri replies in amusement. “I just helped him a little. I think. Although, he did seem really angry about something. Something to do with meeting you and a bargain?”

Viktor waves the comment aside easily. “Ah, he’s always like that, don’t worry.”

Yuuri has his doubts, but he elects to keep them to himself. With a semi-nervous laugh, he says, “So? Is everything alright?”

He had run here like something was chasing him, so his heart still has yet to return to normal. Thoughts of Viktor leaving for good, of returning home, leaving him alone…there could only be so many reasons why Viktor would want to talk to him _here_ , of all places.

Viktor stands up and pats him on the shoulder reassuringly. Yuuri feels his still-stuttering heart try to jump straight out his chest. “Don’t worry, Yuuri! No need to look so frightened. I have a gift for you.” With a flourish, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out—

A CD case. He waves it in the air, and Yuuri watches as it glints and reflects the muted sunlight, then as he presses it into Yuuri’s gloved hand.

Yuuri stares at it, comically similar to how he stared when Yurio handed him the envelope back at the rink. “Um.”

“You have to open it!” Viktor says excitedly. “C’mon, go ahead!”

Yuuri does. Unsurprisingly, there is a single CD sitting in it.

Before he can speak, Viktor says, “Don’t worry, I have the song on my phone, too, so we can listen to it.” He pulls out his phone and fiddles with the apps until he’s found whatever he’s looking for, and hovers his index finger over the play button. Then, he holds his free hand out to Yuuri invitingly.

“May I have this dance?” he asks, breathless, and if Yuuri didn’t know any better, he would almost say that Viktor looks… _nervous._

He almost laughs. What could Viktor Nikiforov, world champion figure skater, poodle lover, rainy park frequenter, possibly be afraid of?

Of course, there is only one answer Yuuri could possibly have.

He nods, and takes his hand. Viktor laces their fingers together (there goes Yuuri’s remaining heartbeats), then lets the music play.

Even though his phone speakers are no stadium sound system, the snow around them seems to mute the rest of existence into the background, leaving them in their own little world, the music ringing loud and clear.

The first thing he hears is the piano. _Lilting, dancing, beautiful_. He sucks in a breath, and Viktor begins to move.

_One, two, three, four._

(He moves his hand to the small of Viktor’s back and bunches his fingers in the material of his coat).

_After a few measures, he hears a violin, soaring through the sky, in harmony with the piano chord after chord, bringing memories that seem nearly forgotten; a half-dream, a part-reality._

(Viktor twirls him with a breathless laugh, dips his head back like they’re on the edge of the world).

_Together, for awhile, the two weave around each other, playful and longing, sneaking glances when they think the other isn’t looking._

(On the contrary, Yuuri can’t stop staring. For the record, neither can Viktor).

_Then, the quiet. The violin is gone. The piano notes seem almost lost for a few endless beats, unsure of their place, how they fit in the song._

(Viktor lets go of his hand momentarily to swing Yuuri out into the snow).

_But somehow, some way, the piano picks itself back up, gaining dynamic, tempo, emotion. Its own kind of quiet strength._

(Yuuri does a graceful pirouette in the snow and ends with his hands extended high above his head, much to the delight of Viktor).

_And then the violins sing again to rejoin the music, quiet at first._

(Yuuri nearly leaps back into Viktor’s outstretched arms).

_Then, in joyous harmony—_

(The winter wonderland holds its breath—)

 _The two burst forth, two halves of the same whole, beautiful and bright and_ alive.

(Viktor moves so close Yuuri can see the faint laugh lines under his eyes, feel nose bumping his).

_It sounds like triumph incarnate._

And as the last chords of the song fade away, Yuuri meets him halfway.

(He tastes like chocolate and coffee).

The song ends.

They break away at some point. Yuuri isn’t sure when, his ears ringing.

“Back when I used to be…well, when I was still competing,” murmurs Viktor suddenly, breath fanning across Yuuri’s cheeks. “I had my music for all my programs composed for me. Recently, I got in touch with some old friends, and…well. Here we are.”

Yuuri is speechless, still lost in the lingering chords that sound like wedding bells in his head.

“If I were your coach,” Viktor says, eyes twinkling. “I would highly recommend you consider using it in the upcoming season.”

After a moment, Yuuri takes a shuddering breath. “You still want to coach me? And for me to…use this song? That you had composed… for _me_?”

Viktor nods, once.

“I—I don’t think I’ll be able to…live up to it. To…you,” he whispers.

Viktor places both hands on Yuuri’s face and brings their foreheads together softly. “Yuuri. You are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met in my life,” he says. “You have a dream, and you’ve worked for it. Still are working for it.”

Yuuri wills the water pooling in his eyes to disappear. _Rain, rain go away._

“Whether or not you want to use it is completely up to you,” Viktor says, voice gentle. “Whether or not you want me to stay by your side is your decision.” He shifts slightly, so that they’re eye to eye. “But please just know this— that you’ve earned the right to skate on any stage you wish, to whatever music you make for yourself.”

“And no matter your decision,” he continues, fingers stroking the sides of Yuuri’s temple, “Please know that I am here for you. Always. You are so _full_ of life, Yuuri,” Viktor finally breathes, and so Yuuri does too. “That you helped me find mine again.”

 _Oh, dear._ Yuuri’s eyes, despite his best efforts, overflow anyway. He wraps his arms around Viktor and doesn’t let go. Viktor mirrors him.

“Thank you,” he chokes. _“Thank you.”_

Viktor holds him tighter. “No, thank _you_ , Yuuri.”

They step apart once more. There’s a silence, a defining moment, those few seconds after a jump in the air, a leap of faith.

Yuuri opens his mouth.

_“Yes.”_

_And he sticks the landing,_ notes the garden around them, amused.

At the same time, Viktor lets loose an overjoyed yell, then picks him up by the waist and spins them in a circle together, much to the protest of a _very_ red Yuuri.

“Viktor! Put me down!” he says, but he’s laughing. Viktor does so with a wide grin, and once Yuuri’s feet are planted solidly on the ground, he brushes a feather kiss to Yuuri’s cheek.

And with that, Yuuri could probably melt the snow with the heat of his face right now, but there’s more he needs to say. “I promise,” he begins, and Viktor sobers up almost immediately, “that I will do my absolute best. I’ll show the world that I’m worthy.” His eyes are serious, the kind reserved for before a competition. “Worthy to skate on the same stage as you.”

Viktor acknowledges him with a solemn nod. “I expect nothing less from my beloved student.”

 _Student._ “Thanks…Coach,” he says, and Viktor protests immediately.

“Hey, now. None of this ‘coach’ business, please! Just call me as I am.”

“Let me think…Ok, _lover,_ then.”

“ _Yuuri!”_

Oops. Perhaps he’s been skating to _Eros_ for a little too long.

After the ensuing tackle-hug that inevitably occurs, pink faces all around, Viktor suddenly gets quiet.

“Oh, and for the record,” he says with a wink, “you already are. Worthy, that is.”

Yuuri blushes again, and mumbles a gracious _thank you._

His embarrassment only intensifies when they return to the benches to retrieve their scattered belongings, and Viktor somehow sneaks his hand into Yuuri’s, lacing their fingers together as they walk back towards the entrance.

 _Phichit is going to have a field day with this development_ , he thinks wryly.

“What did you think of the piece?” Viktor asks, grinning ear to ear. Yuuri tears away his thoughts of horrid Instagram stories and prospective family dinners to answer.

“I _loved_ it,” he says, with enough conviction to crack glaciers. “It was so…beautiful.”

“ _Yes!”_ Viktor swings their linked arms together triumphantly. “I’m so happy you think so too! It reminded me of you when I first heard it, you know.” Glossing over the fact that he just called Yuuri _beautiful_ —good God, how is he going to survive this—he says excitedly, “What do you want to name it? Honor’s all yours!”

“Hmm…”

As they walk away from the little alcove, Yuuri glances at the silver sky dusting the world in white, at the glass pond that will thaw come springtime, at the snow ahead of them untouched by their footprints. A new chapter, a clean slate.

He remembers months and months of this being in this place, listening quietly to more than one kind of music. When he thinks of the many more to come, he smiles.

His days of waiting are over.

“How does _Yuri on Ice_ sound?” he finally says, eyes shining.

_If the garden left behind them, hushed with snow and the promise of warmer days, agrees with him, it remains silent. For now. Really, anything it could possibly say is already tumbling out of the once-stranger’s heart-shaped mouth delightedly, so there’s no need._

_Besides, if it wishes to see the two again, all it must do is be a little a patient._

_And so, it does what gardens do best, and waits for the rain._

Fin.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit. I...  
> I would just like to thank everyone who helped me finish this. Whether you're a fellow writer, or a reader, or a someone who left comments or kudos... _thank you so much_.  
>  This was actually my first fic of this length, so while to some it may not be considered longfic, it is very much the longest thing I have ever written. And it took a long time too, nearly 9 months (for that, I apologize--real life has a habit of getting in the way somtimes rip) plus the few months beforehand of watching and reading and seeing other amazing authors inspire me, and it all led to this. So really, this fic is the culmination of over a year's hard work-- and hopefully, improvement-- when it comes to my writing, and I'm so happy I was able to see it through to the end like I said I would.  
> So, if you're new, or if you've stuck with my silly rain ramblings for this long--from the bottom of my heart: thank you so, so much.
> 
> lots of love,  
> Cas <3
> 
> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/chubsthehamster) and [tumblr](https://trashycaswrites.tumblr.com/) if you ever want to come shout at me about yoi or anime in general (rn my newest fixation is bnha so if there are any class 1-A'ers out there it's ride or die, pal).

**Author's Note:**

> So episode 12 left me with Too Many Feelings. Someone please send help immediately.


End file.
